The Path of the Heart
by J.C. Martin
Summary: A sequel to my other story, The Way of the Hunter. *NEW* chapter 42.
1. Prologue: Concluding the Experiment

_Acknowledgment:_

_I am deeply indebted to Ian for the plot bunny, for being my muse, and for being an inexhaustible font of Realms knowledge! Thanks for the great ideas and conversations, and for helping me keep my facts straight!_

_Most dangerous is the path of the heart,  
But no path runs so true.  
In love's great name great ventures embark  
To the ends of the earth as I to you._

_- Michael L. Morris, "Path of the Heart"_

**Prologue – Concluding the Experiment**

After witnessing the scene that unfolded before him, Mephasm's low, rumbling laugh resonates across the barren plains.

"Oh, how very compelling! Even I had not foreseen that happening!" His red eyes twinkle with mirth as he gazes down at the little half-elf bending over the dying ranger. "You mortals never cease to surprise me with your unexpected actions! Offer a choice of two options, and you pick a third! The way your minds work still amazes me!"

He has to admit, he had not seen it coming, and since few things ever surprise him nowadays, this is indeed a rare treat.

The pit fiend hovers over the two mortals, and inspects the man's self-inflicted stab wound with the detachment of a scientist observing a crushed bug under a magnifying lens. The devil begins to speak, his tone contemplative, as if he were talking to himself.

"What could possess a mere mortal to throw his own life away so carelessly? Considering, as well, that he could have gained so much had he fought for his own survival? To think, that he had the opportunity to end his own suffering, to start his life afresh with long-lost loved ones…"

He regards the half-elf critically.

"Why was he willing to give all that up – just so _you_ live?"

Crossing an arm in front of himself, the baatezu rubs his chin thoughtfully with his other hand.

"Perhaps there is something behind all those walls of hatred, resentment and self-contempt after all…"

He watches as the man's blood seeps out from around the dagger embedded in his chest, trickling down his sides and pooling around his still form, staining the rust coloured earth beneath him a darker shade of crimson.

"I would have liked to study him a bit longer," he says almost ruefully. "He was proving to be such an interesting and complex specimen…" With a dismissive shrug, he continues, "Ah well, I thoroughly enjoyed myself while it lasted. It may not have helped me understand human emotions any better, but it was definitely entertaining. I really should perform such experiments and observations more often."

He turns his attention to the woman kneeling over the man's body.

"Thank you for your part in brightening up an otherwise dull and uneventful few weeks," He smiles with what can almost pass as sincerity. "But, I guess I have no use for you now."

Lifting a finger, he points it at the half-elf. All at once, a blinding bolt of white light shoots out from his fingertip, and flies unerringly towards its target.


	2. Chapter 1: Putting the Past Behind

**Chapter 1 – Putting the Past Behind**

There is a biting chill in the air, and the cold wind pierces straight through the thin fabric of her monk's robe, as she sits with her knees hugged to her chest at the edge of the cliff. She ignores the goose pimples crawling along her flesh as she stares vacantly at the darkened landscape before her.

How long has she been perched here in a daze? She doesn't know. She is vaguely aware of the fact that the sun, which was near its highest point in the sky when she first sat down, has now disappeared beneath the horizon in the west, and where there were blue skies and white clouds, there is now a black velvet blanket studded with cold twinkling diamonds. The silver moon shines emotionlessly overhead, casting its icy, judgmental light on her.

She shivers, not from the cold, but from her own troubling thoughts.

When Mephasm had fired that brilliant flash of light at her, she could feel her skin tingling and her hair crackling from the powerful magic, and she sat bolt upright with a loud gasp, every muscle in her body tensed, ready to respond to whatever the unfamiliar but rather menacing looking spell would do to her. She was momentarily confused when the blue devil, along with the entire alien landscape of red earth and red skies, seemed to have vanished right before her eyes.

Disoriented by her sudden change in surroundings, she sat there blinking, staring blankly at the stone walls around her, at the warped old bookcase in the corner, stuffed full of tomes and scrolls. A feral growl made her jump again, as she felt something cold and wet on her hand. A wolf was nudging her fingers with his nose, making yipping noises, his bushy tail wagging. He appeared glad to see her, as he pounced on her, his front paws on her shoulders, and with small snuffling sounds, proceeded to lick her all over her face.

She was back in the study chamber of her mentor's cave, in her sleeping bag, in the exact same spot where she had fallen asleep, before she had woken up to that surreal scene in that Outer Planar desert.

_How did I get from here to there? And how did I get back? Was that all just a dream? _

As the events from the eerie nightmare replayed itself in her head, she remembered the gash she got across her arm. She glanced down, expecting to see the bloody hole on her robe, but the fabric was clean and untorn. Rolling her sleeve up, she inspected her bare arm.

No cut.

She let out a breath.

_So it was just a dream…_

_But it was so real…_

Just then, she heard her mentor's voice calling for her in his foreign tongue, the _clack-clack-clack _of his walking stick echoing through the stone corridor of the cave. When his head appeared in the entrance to the chamber, she detected a sense of urgency in his eyes. Even before he said anything, she knew something was wrong.

Another chilly gust of wind blows up from the valley, and she pulls her cloak tighter around herself. Karnwyr whines softly besides her as he rests his grey head on his massive paws.

When her mentor had brought her to where Bishop lay, her heart had wrenched painfully at the sight. His normally tanned complexion had taken on a waxen, deathlike pall, and his cheek bones were sunken. Kneeling down beside him, she placed the back of her hand on his forehead. Where his brow was once hot and feverish and his skin clammy, he was now cold to the touch. Placing two fingers to his neck, she prayed for a pulse, but found none.

_It can't be…it was just a dream…_

She pulled away the blanket covering his body. Apart from the many old scars marring his torso, she found no blood, no stab wound, no fancy jeweled dagger protruding from his chest.

The fact that all this transpired because Bishop had taken a poisoned arrow aimed at her had not escaped her conscience, and she felt a terrible pang of guilt. When she turned to her mentor, the desperation in her eyes was clear to see.

"He's not…is he…?" she was afraid to even ask the question. The somber look on the old man's wizened face did little to encourage her.

"I am afraid it is too late, child."

She found herself shaking her head mutely as the words sank in.

_No…not after everything we've done to try and save him…_

She felt a hand on her shoulder. The old man was gazing at her gently, concern etching his wrinkled brow.

"Go," he urged simply, as he ushered her outside. "I will handle things here."

Dumbly, she nodded, as she allowed herself to be led to the cave entrance. Sitting down at the edge of the stony ledge, she breathed in the fresh mountain air. Perhaps staying outdoors a while would help clear her head a little.

As the old man turned to re-enter the cave, something about her haunting dream still nagged at her, and it possessed her to ask after him, "Do you know what the poison is?"

The old man stopped, glancing over a stooped shoulder, and nodded gravely. "It is the most cruel kind of poison: red dragon's blood."

If she had been standing, her knees would have given way.

She feels something furry bumping into her leg and looks down. Karnwyr is nudging her with his snout, as if trying to get her attention. He seems upset as he whines plaintively, his golden eyes wide and shining like two liquid pools.

_Golden eyes…_

_They look so much like his…_

Pushing the thought away, she strokes the creature absently, her mind continuing to wander.

_So was what I had a dream? The cut on my arm…it's not real…but I remember the pain…and all those people…Bishop's parents…that girl…they all seem so real…and no way could I have dreamt up dragon's blood. I know nothing about it!_

The thought that it was all truly some elaborate psychological game designed by the baatezu makes her shudder involuntarily.

_If it wasn't a dream…then what Bishop did…_

The thought hits her like a punch in the gut.

_He had a choice…he could have chosen to be happy…_

_But why didn't he?_

She remembers the bruising kiss he gave her just before he stuck the knife into himself. What was that all about?

A heavy feeling of guilt descends on her chest. She knows it is illogical to blame herself – ultimately, he had made his own decision – but she cannot help it. She hears Mephasm's ominous voice again:

"_Why was he willing to give all that up – just so _you_ live?"_

_I don't know…_

If the roles were reversed, she wonders if she would have done the same, or if she would have gone for the selfish option.

_This all started because I was too careless with that damned poisoned arrow…_

The muffled _thud _of a wooden cane landing in the soft dirt outside the cave tells her that her mentor is behind her. She shifts to face him.

"I have made the necessary preparations for tomorrow," he announces evenly. "We shall bury him in the morning."

She has always known that the burial is inevitable, but somehow having the old man saying it out loud makes it unbearable all of a sudden. The weight of guilt presses down further upon her shoulders.

"No…" she says suddenly. "No, there must be a way to get him back. I can ride out to find a cleric, bring him back here. Or go to a temple. They may be able to help…" She knows she is rambling, but she cannot stop herself.

"I am sorry, my child," Her mentor shakes his head slowly. "That would take too long. By the time you return, it would be too late."

"No it won't!" she insists heatedly. "You could keep his body preserved until I get back. I won't take long…" Without realizing it, she has lapsed back into speaking in her own tongue.

The old man places a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Child," he says patiently, speaking haltingly in Common. "Indeed, I can preserve his body, but his soul will not wait so long for resurrection."

She stares at him uncomprehendingly. "W-what do you mean? His soul is just in limbo somewhere, isn't it? Surely a cleric can track him down!"

Her mentor lowers himself down beside her. When he starts speaking again, he reverts back to his foreign language.

"When a person dies, the soul is transported to the Gray Wastes of the Outer Planes. There, it will wander briefly before either being collected by an avatar of the deity they worshipped in life, or they will be judged by Kelemvor, the God of Death himself. Once either of this happens, the soul can no longer be retrieved."

The look her mentor gives her is one of sympathy.

"We are too far away from help of any kind. It will take too long, and by that time his soul will be irretrievable. I am sorry, child, but there is nothing you can do."

The old man's soft words crush the remaining vestige of foolish hope she harboured. With an exasperated sigh, she runs her fingers through her hair in frustration.

"This is all my fault…" she whispers, her voice quaking, as she talks more to herself than to her mentor. "If only I were more careful…" The backs of her eyes are starting to prickle suspiciously, and she blinks rapidly to fight back the tears.

"Do not blame yourself for something you cannot change," the old man says quietly.

She says nothing as she stares at the nighttime forest below them, afraid to say anything in case her voice betrayed her.

She feels a gnarled hand squeezing hers.

"A fool could lose tomorrow reaching back for yesterday." The old man's eyes are kind as he continues, "This may be hard for you to hear at the moment, but it is no use mourning over something in the past that can no longer be changed."

Alya inhales deeply, trying to keep her emotions in check. She nods weakly to acknowledge her _sifu_'s words. She knows that what he says is true.

"Do you not have loved ones awaiting you? Do not let them suffer because of your regrets. For both their sake and yours, you have to put your past behind you."

With that, the old man pushes himself to his feet, and looks up at the starry night.

"I am going to rest. Perhaps this would be a good time for some quiet contemplation?"

She understands that means her mentor is suggesting meditation to calm her raging thoughts.

"Yes, _sifu_," she agrees dutifully, as she makes herself comfortable. As much as she hates to admit it, everything the old man said makes perfect sense: there is no way she could be blamed for what had happened, and there is nothing anyone can do about it now. No sense lingering on things that cannot be changed.

With her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, she closes her eyes, and starts to focus on her breathing, inhaling slowly and deeply through her nose, feeling the cold night air filling her lungs. She holds it in her chest for a moment, before just as slowly exhaling through her mouth, imagining herself breathing out all her negative thoughts.

_Sifu is right; I have people who care for me waiting for me – back home._

Resolutely, she tells herself that she would return to Crossroads Keep as soon as the burial is over. She smiles slightly as she imagines herself reunited with her friends: Daeghun, Bevil, and Elanee and Neeshka, who she heard have also survived the battle against the Guardian…

It would be good to see them again…

As she continues to concentrate on breathing deeply, she feels the knotted muscles between her shoulder blades relaxing, as the cluttered thoughts in her mind start to sort themselves out, putting everything into perspective.

_Time to put the past behind me…_

She tries to ignore the solitary tear rolling out the corner of one eye, tracking a salty course down her cheek.


	3. Chapter 2: A Debt to Repay

**Chapter 2 – A Debt to Repay**

The early morning is cold and grey, the sun offering scant warmth as it barely peeks out over the hills in the east. The valley below is shrouded in a swirling mist, as Alya helps her _sifu _onto the waiting horse, trying not to look at the large cloth-wrapped bundle already slung across the mare's sturdy back, the one that Karnwyr is sniffing and whimpering softly at.

Every time she sees it, she feels a stab of guilt for being unable to offer him even the dignity of a decent coffin.

With a shovel in one hand and the horse's reins in the other, she guides the small party wordlessly along the gravel path that leads down into the dense misty woods. As they travel, the only sound that can be heard is the crunching of the horse's hooves on the pebbles underfoot. The air is still; no wind whispering through the leaves, no birds singing in the trees, no creatures rustling in the underbrush. It is as if the entire forest has fallen silent as a mark of respect to the passing funeral procession.

_I shouldn't be here, _she thinks as she trudges along wearily. She has only had snatches of sleep the night before, her fitful slumber constantly interrupted by moments of wakefulness, as she spent hours staring at the stone ceiling while her conscience kept her awake.

_I shouldn't be here doing what I'm doing now…I should be back in the Keep, with all my friends, signing paperwork…and he should be…well, wherever he was planning on going after dropping me off…_

_He should be _alive_…_

_If only I had paid more attention to that damned arrow…_

"Stop here, child." Her mentor's soft voice punctuates her gloomy thoughts. They have arrived at a small grassy clearing ringed with evergreens, with a couple of cherry trees growing in the middle. She can imagine how pretty the glade would look in springtime when the cherry blossoms are in full bloom.

_I guess this is as good a place as any…_

Tethering the horse to the nearest tree, she helps the old man dismount, and together they unload their precious cargo, placing him gently upon the dew-speckled grass. Karnwyr trots up beside them and sits down with one paw placed reverently on the bundle.

Without a word, Alya sets to work on her unenviable task. Poising the tip of the shovel over the earth, she uses a foot to drive the spade head into the moist dirt, before scooping up a mound of soil and setting it aside. After breaking through the top layer, the underlying earth is softer and easier to dredge, and she falls into a rhythm as she quietly begins to dig. The work is grim but monotonous, the motions repetitive, and she soon finds her mind wandering again.

_Why did he do that to himself? The devil had promised him so much…_

She tries to imagine what she would do if Mephasm had offered _her _a second chance: perhaps an alternative existence, one where the shard had just missed her rather than lodging itself in her chest…one where she actually grew up with her mother, be raised by a loving parent rather than a cold, resentful foster father…one where she could just live out a normal, humble, unremarkable life without ever leaving the confines of West Harbour or the Mere…

If the dagger was in her hand, and all she had to do was kill one person for all her desires to become true, would she hesitate?

If she had to kill _Bishop_, could she go through with it?

The shameful truth is, she cannot honestly say that she wouldn't be tempted.

_Why did you do that? When all that you've ever wanted was so close, why did you throw it all away? _

_Why did you try to be a hero? _

And that is the burning question, isn't it? For someone who loathed the idea of sacrifice and valour, who had deemed people who cannot defend themselves unworthy to live, why did he suddenly decide to get all selfless?

_Well, it wasn't exactly sudden now, was it?_

She sighs as she tries to recall the number of times he'd saved her hide in the last few months: against the Guardian, that damned poisoned arrow from Garrick…

And something had happened while she was unconscious after the githyanki attack, hadn't it? She shudders at the memory of the angry red gouges she saw on Bishop's back, and at finding his completely shredded and singed armour. He had never really told her what had happened, but he did mention that they had a bit of a hell hound problem.

It must have been hard lugging a comatose half-elf around while trying to fend off packs of infernal canines…

Oh, and let's not forget the fact that he had practically nursed her back to health afterwards, when he could have so easily just left her in the woods to fend for herself…

_Why didn't you, anyway? What happened to all your talk about not wanting to be tied down?_

The fact that she owes him her life not once, but many times over, has not escaped her.

_And to think that I couldn't even repay the favour once…_

_Damn it, Bishop…damn_ you_ for making me feel so guilty…_

"That is deep enough, child."

She was so immersed in her own thoughts that she is initially confused by her mentor's words. Glancing about, she finds herself standing in a hole that is now almost five feet deep, and all of a sudden she begins to feel the fatigue in her arms, tired from all that digging.

The hardest bit is only just starting though…

With some difficulty, Alya and her mentor manage to move the cloth-wrapped bundle into the open grave. It involves her climbing out of the hole, helping move the body, and then jumping back into the grave as the old man passes the bundle down to her. She grunts in exertion under the weight of the load, but finally manages to set him down gently.

Hoisting herself out of the open grave, she wipes her dirty hands on her trousers as she gazes down at the ranger's body. Karnwyr pads over, his head held low as he gazes longingly at his master. The wolf whines forlornly as he lies down right beside the hole.

She looks away quickly, her eyes stinging, her heart panging, her conscience weighing heavily upon her.

_After all the crap that life had tossed him, it's so unfair that this has to happen to him now…_

The only consolation she can think of, is that perhaps now, he can finally be at peace.

Alya feels her mentor's hand on her arm.

"We shall proceed only when you are ready," he tells her gently.

The nod she gives in reply is assertive, more so than how she actually feels inside.

"Very well," says the old man, as he hobbles to the edge of the grave, and pulls out a small battered tome.

"It may not be the same as having an actual priest of the order attending, but I am familiar with the funeral rites of some of the deities, and if I can, I will strive to conduct the rituals as accurately as possible." He thumbs through the dog-eared pages of the book with his bony hands.

"Which deity did your friend worship in life?"

Alya opens her mouth to reply.

But for a moment, no words come out.

Who _did _he worship?

For one thing, it is hard to imagine someone who hates being tied down as much as Bishop, to actually be attached to any god.

For another thing…

Fragments of memories flash through her mind. Bishop bears no religious tattoos, nor does she remember him ever wearing anything that could be in any way related to a particular deity; no holy amulets, rings or any such symbols…

Has she ever heard him invoking a god's name, either in gratitude or in vain? Not that she can remember. If anything, the profanities he often uttered were frequently blasphemous.

"_The gods be damned…don't bother praying, no one's listening…"_

One particular comment he made when he visited her during her Rite of Tyr, the night before her trial by combat against Lorne, stands out starkly.

"_It's just a statue, you know."_

All at once, realisation dawns on her.

"I don't think Bishop had a deity."

She sees the old man's eyebrow arching up in mild surprise.

"So he is a Faithless…" he muses, as he strokes his snow-white beard. "That is unfortunate…"

Despite not understanding what he meant, her mentor's sombre tone makes her blood run cold.

"W-what do you mean, Faithless? Why is that unfortunate?"

She knows little about what happens after death. All she knows is that worshipping a deity would guarantee one a happier afterlife. She has always assumed that an atheist or agnostic would just have a harder time finding peace in death, but that they would still be at rest eventually.

Her _sifu_'s grave expression, however, suggests otherwise.

"The Faithless are the spirits of people who in life have never chosen to serve a patron god. When their souls reach the Gray Wastes of Hades, they will never be claimed by any deity. Instead, there is a Wall of the Faithless surrounding the City of Judgment, one that is made up of the souls of such people."

The old man eyes Alya sympathetically, as he continues solemnly.

"Any unclaimed spirit will be imprisoned in this wall forever, and will suffer within its bindings, until his soul, his consciousness, and his identity, are eventually dissolved, as he fuses with the structure and becomes one with the plane."

The ominous words send a shudder of horror through her, as she stares at her mentor, her head shaking in disbelief.

"N-no…that sounds too horrible…the gods would never allow that…how can you be so sure it is true?"

The hermit puts away his creased notebook.

"Sadly, the gods can be rather…ungenerous…at times. They usually only look out for one of their own. They have no use for the Faithless. And I would not tell you this unless I know it to be true."

"Forgive me, _sifu."_ Alya bows her head in apology when she realises how much her earlier statement could sound like she was questioning her mentor's knowledge. Her stomach is twisted into knots of dread at the thought of Bishop getting assimilated into a wall of suffering souls.

"Can't we just perform the ritual of any god for him?" she asks, knowing even as she said it that she is clutching at straws.

"The gods will recognise those who truly serve them from those who only pay lip service," he replies simply.

"No…" She lets out a small cry of frustration and helplessness before dropping to a crouch, resting her head in her hands.

"He doesn't deserve such a fate…nobody does…" She is speaking in Common again as she wrings her hands in her hair. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

Her mentor is silent for a while, but even without looking up, she can feel his searching eyes regarding her. Finally, she hears his kindly voice asking quietly, "You care much for this man, do you not?"

She snaps her head up.

"N-no!" she protests, a little too quickly. "I'm just…guilty…that I failed to…repay a debt, that's all." She tries to say it with enough belief to convince herself.

The old man looks at her probingly, and she turns away to avoid his scrutinising gaze, only to end up staring into the deep burial pit. Seeing Bishop's wrapped-up body at the bottom of the hole makes her heart constrict painfully.

Her _sifu _begins to address her in his heavily accented Common.

"What is this debt you did not repay?"

She sighs. "I just feel that I owe him my life, and more than once at that. It bothers me that the only time I could have saved his life in return, I failed."

Putting her thoughts into words suddenly makes them seem all the more depressing.

"Gods damn it, why did he have to do that?" She covers her face with her hands as her eyes start to mist over. Hadn't she promised herself just last night that she was going to put all this behind her?

"That arrow was meant for me! Why did he have to get in the way?" She sighs again, and it comes out sounding more like a sob. She falls silent as she tries to rein in her emotions, taking deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down. When she finally speaks again, her voice is little more than a quavering whisper. "He's been through so much already…he doesn't deserve this…"

She can hear her mentor stepping closer to her before feeling a soothing hand on her back.

"It appears to me that you are unable to let go of certain aspects of the past," he remarks in his lilting Common. "I can see that your feelings for this man are strong."

Even now, she sets her jaw stubbornly as she insists, "I just want to right a gross injustice, especially one I feel personally responsible for."

When she glances up at the old man, his wise eyes are twinkling knowingly.

"If you are certain that is what you want…there may be a way."


	4. Chapter 3: A Chance for Closure?

**Chapter 3 – A Chance for Closure?**

Alya's eyes widen as she gapes at her mentor, her expression registering a sort of cautious hope.

"A way?" she asks carefully. "A way to what?"

"To achieve some closure," comes the simple reply, as the old man shuffles over towards an ancient tree stump. Sitting down on it, he motions for Alya to come closer, and she obediently moves over to sit cross-legged at his feet, feeling the dampness of the morning dew still clinging to the grass beneath her.

The old hermit gives her a small smile that is both affectionate and understanding.

"My child," he begins. "You feel a strong sense of obligation to honour the debt you owe your friend, and as much as you should not blame yourself, you are feeling deeply guilty for failing to protect him in return. So much so, that you will be unable to let go of the past, until you satisfy yourself that you have done all you can to try and make amends."

She nods wordlessly as she listens to her mentor.

_That pretty much sums it up…_

"If he has really saved your life many times, then he probably cared for you a great deal. And despite what you say, I sense that your own feelings for him run rather deep."

Deciding that denying the statement would only make her seem petulant, Alya says nothing as she stares awkwardly at the ground. The memory of that final kiss has been lingering in her mind ever since she woke up from that awful 'dream'. In spite of the fact that Bishop was actually _trying _to kill her initially, the moment their lips met, she had surrendered easily, _too _easily, to that passionate, hungry kiss. She remembers his warm mouth against hers, as he greedily tried to drink from her lips…the feel of his strong arms wrapped tightly around her, his muscles rippling and coiling around her body as he held her close…his heady, masculine scent, musky with a hint of leather and forest pine…her cheeks start to colour at the recollection.

_So stupid, letting myself be at his mercy like that…_

_He could have killed me…_

_But he didn't…_

She shivers at the thought of what had happened next. It is something she would not be forgetting for a long time to come.

When she first felt the quick movement of his hand between them, and the sickening sound of a blade slicing into flesh, she had tensed instinctively, and for a split second, she thought that he had indeed stabbed her. Inhaling sharply, she waited for the inevitable pain, all the while cursing herself for her weakness, for foolishly letting him get so close.

But then the pain never came, and the dreadful realisation of what actually happened dawned on her.

She had tried to pull back then, to try and break free so she could stop him from further harming himself, but he had locked her in a vice-like grip, even as he drove the blade deeper into his own chest.

And so, she was forced to gaze into his dimming eyes, to feel the soft caress of his last breath on her cheek…

To watch helplessly as he died.

She runs her hands vigorously up and down her arms, trying to smooth down the goose pimples that erupted on her skin at the grisly memory. That annoying little prickling feeling in her eyes has returned, and she tries to blink it away.

"You said…there might be a way…for me to make things right?" she asks her mentor hopefully, as she forces the harrowing images from her mind.

The old man pauses contemplatively, as if choosing his words carefully.

"No," he finally says. "I said there might be a way for you to achieve some _closure_."

Alya frowns. "What is the difference?"

Her mentor strokes his long flowing beard, again appearing to mull over his words before speaking.

"If you try and fail, you at least tried," he begins, almost cautiously. "And sometimes, just putting in the effort, and realising how improbable the task is, could help one to accept one's failure."

His benevolent eyes are apologetic when he looks at her.

"Perhaps that failure could even teach you that what you _thought _you wanted was not the case."

Alya's mouth is hanging open in shock. She cannot believe what her mentor is implying.

"Are you saying," she begins, as she eyes the old man incredulously, "that you were going to set me some _impossible_ task, just to make it easier for me to accept my failure?" Her voice rises, becoming more high-pitched as the slight prickling behind her eyes intensifies, threatening to completely obscure her vision with a salty haze. "Just because I _tried _to do something that was impossible in the first place, I should comfort myself by thinking that I 'did my best' for Bishop?" Her words carry an undertone of disgust at the idea. "Do you honestly think that would make me feel better??"

She jumps blindly to her feet, her vision clouded by a watery mist, her voice shrill and angry.

"I _don't _need failure to teach me what I _think_ I want or don't want! I _know_ what I want…and…that's…I want…"

Still standing defiantly and gesticulating wildly, her lips continue to move, but no words come out.

_What _do _you want? _

_You don't know, do you?_

With a frustrated sob, she sinks to her knees, completely overwhelmed by uncertainty, guilt and grief. The tears she has been holding back for so long finally begins to flow.

_What do I want? _

_Do I want him back?_

_No…I mean yes…but not in that way…_

_I just want to repay the debt I owe him…_

_Now you're starting to _sound _like him…_

For a while, she just kneels there, her hands covering her face as she weeps quietly. She can feel moisture everywhere: dew from the grass seeping through the knees of her trousers, the damp morning mist that still hangs in the air, the hot tears from her own eyes burning her cheeks.

_There is nothing you can do…_

_But there is nothing stopping you from _trying_…_

Her mentor's words echo in her mind.

"_If you try and fail, you at least tried."_

_Damn, I hate it that _sifu_'s right all the time…_

When she looks up, the old man is sitting in the exact same position as before, as if he had never moved. If he was at all fazed by her earlier outburst, he shows no sign of it. Instead, he is returning her gaze calmly and expectantly.

Breathing in deeply, Alya swallows her pride. Trying to keep her voice steady, she whispers, "What I want, is to be able to say that I have at least tried."

_I owe him that much._

Her mentor nods once. "Very well," he says simply. Rising slowly from the tree stump, he motions towards the open grave.

"But first, we need to take him back to the cave."


	5. Chapter 4: An Impossible Task?

**Chapter 4 – An Impossible Task?**

By the time they arrive back at her master's cave home, the sun is shining brightly high in the cloudless sky, and its warm rays have long ago burnt up the remaining wisps of mists snaking through the wooded glens below.

As soon as Alya has eased the heavy bundle gently onto the cavern floor, she groans as she stands up, arching her back to stretch out the aching, knotted muscles around her lower spine. Apart from having had to haul Bishop's body back out of the grave, she had to painstakingly refill the hole she dug, replacing and patting down every shovel full of earth she moved, until the ground looked exactly as it had been before she started excavating it, save for a bald grassless patch. Finally, she had to lead the trek back to the top of the Star Mount, which is a steep, uphill climb all the way. The hours of back-breaking work, coupled with the previous night's restless slumber, is taking its toll. She winces as she rolls a stiff shoulder, feeling tired, sore and dirty, yet unusually high-strung.

She massages the small of her back while anxiously watching her master unwrap the ranger's body. He has not mentioned anything further about how she is supposed to "achieve some closure", as he calls it, and the suspense is killing her. But she knows her master well enough to realise that he will only offer information when _he _is ready, and that she has little choice but to bide her time.

She tries to console herself with the fact that it is a good sign Bishop is not already six feet underground.

When the old man pulls the cloth aside, Alya's heart wrenches painfully again at the sight of the lifeless ranger's pale, haggard face. She sees Karnwyr padding over to his master's side. Lying down, the massive grey wolf appears as vulnerable as an orphaned new-born pup, as he licks futilely at a motionless hand, all the while whining pitifully. Unable to bear the heart-breaking scene, Alya turns away, fighting down another upsurge of emotions.

To avoid looking at Bishop's dead body, she concentrates instead on observing her mentor pottering about his workbench. It is something that had always fascinated her as a child whilst growing up with the hermit, and even now she finds herself watching him with interest as he rummages inside a drawer, before producing a small glass phial containing some iridescent powder. As the individual crystalline grains shift within the bottle, they catch the sunlight pouring into the cave, splintering it into a prismatic array of colour.

Her curiosity gets the better of her as she asks, "What is that in the vial?"

Uncorking the container, the old man empties the contents into a wrinkled palm. The handful of sparkling sand glitters red, blue, green, gold and silver, as he brings it closer to Alya for her to inspect it.

"It is a mixture of crushed diamond, ruby, emerald and sapphire," he tells her, as he walks slowly towards Bishop's body.

Alya whistles in awe, her fingers encircling protectively around the diamond ring that she wears on a chain around her neck. "Sounds expensive," she remarks, as she admires the brilliant colours bouncing off the glassy powder.

The old man merely nods, as he stands over Bishop's still form and closes his eyes, his lips beginning to form the words to an unknown spell. Alya watches in captivated silence as he sprinkles the scintillating powder over Bishop's body, all the while muttering softly under his breath. The air in the room suddenly becomes charged with some magical energy, and the ranger's body is briefly surrounded by a shimmering aura every bit as colourful as the radiant dust scattered over him. As quickly as it appears, though, the glow fades, as does the electrified atmosphere, leaving everything apparently unchanged.

_So what did that do? _she wonders, as she looks around. The spell doesn't seem to have had any noticeable effects.

_I hope all those expensive powdered gems weren't just wasted on some flashy fireworks display… _

Alya eyes her master quizzically. As if sensing her question, the old man explains, "I have just placed a Temporal Stasis spell on his body. Essentially, he is now in a suspended state of animation. Until I remove the spell, his body will remain preserved in this state indefinitely."

Alya glances at the body of the ranger, thankful that she at least doesn't have to deal with the gruesome problem of decomposition.

"So…we keep his body preserved while we search for his soul?" she asks hopefully. "And then return the soul to his body when we recover it?"

If_ we recover it…_she mentally corrects herself.

"That is the eventual plan," the old man replies. "But first," he picks up an empty glass vial from his bench, "the poison inside him still needs to be purged in order that his body becomes…inhabitable…again."

He hands the empty container to Alya.

"You need to retrieve the antidote."

Alya takes the glass bottle from her _sifu_. "O-kay," she intones cautiously. "That sounds uncomplicated enough."

She suspects the task would actually be far from simple.

Carefully slipping the vial into her pocket, she asks, "What is it that I need to find?"

The old man strokes his beard.

"Being such a strong poison, the only thing that can counteract the effects of red dragon's blood, is a poison of equal power."

Alya blinks uncomprehendingly. "Using poison to fight poison?" She frowns. "How does that work?"

"I will show you." The old man hobbles to his workbench, motioning for her to follow. Laying out an empty dish, he places a vial on either end of it, one containing a deep red liquid, the other a bright blue solution.

Her _sifu_'s voice is patient as he explains, "Everything in life exists in a delicate balance: good and evil, light and dark, summer and winter…" He picks up a vial in each hand, shaking them both. The respective liquids contained within lap about, but otherwise remain unchanged. "See? When it is one or the other, there will be no conflicts."

He moves to uncork both bottles.

"Extreme heat is destructive, just like extreme cold. Similarly, red dragon's blood is a very powerful toxin, and on its own, so is its antidote. When the two opposing elements collide however, discord arises, until a compromise between the two can be reached. That is the point when they neutralise each other."

Simultaneously, he pours both vials of fluids down opposite sides of the dish. When they meet in the middle, the two begin to merge, spreading wispy tentacles of colour into each other's domain, and the boundary where they meet starts to bubble angrily. Soon, the whole mixture begins effervescing violently, spewing up tendrils of white acrid smoke. Alya steps back cautiously, squinting her eyes and covering her nose. After a few minutes, though, the spitting finally subsides, and when the cloud of smoke clears, all that remains in the vessel is a homogeneous, harmless-looking solution of royal purple.

"It is through chaos that one achieves balance."

Alya stares quietly at the dish of purple liquid, now completely still and benign-looking. Her mind is racing with the implication of what her mentor has just said.

_Put _another_ potent poison into him? _The thought gives Alya the chills. In her mind's eye, she sees Bishop convulsing in the grips of the red dragon's blood, his teeth clenched tightly, the veins in his neck and corded muscles standing out starkly. And the violent reaction when the red and blue chemicals combined…is that what would happen_ inside_ his body if they administered the antidote? Can his body take that amount of punishment?

_What other poison could be as horribly strong as red dragon's blood? And do we really want to inject more poison into him?_

Warily, she asks, "So what is this antidote, then?"

The old man's eyes twinkle with wisdom. "To negate the raging fire of the red dragon's blood, we need freezing ice. The two extremes will eventually cancel each other out. The source of the antidote is hence the complete opposite of the red dragon; where the red dragon is the largest of the chromatic dragons, controlling the element of fire, the white dragon is the smallest, but it is no less dangerous, as it controls the element of frost."

"White dragon's blood?" Alya says dubiously. "That is the antidote?"

The old man nods. "Unfortunately," he adds, "it is difficult to acquire. All dragons' blood lose their potency over time, and must be used fresh."

She doesn't like where this is leading. At the same time, the fact that Garrick had _fresh _red dragon's blood on hand meant that he had _planned_ on finding Bishop – which means he had probably been aware of their whereabouts for quite a while. The thought of being spied on by the creepy duergar makes her shudder.

"So…are you saying that we have to_ find_ a white dragon, and extract its blood?"

The old hermit nods again.

She sighs as she runs her fingers through her hair. "Where in Toril can we find a white dragon?" she laments as she lapses back into her own tongue, speaking more to herself than to her mentor.

The old man appears to treat her disheartened complaining like any other normal question, as he answers her in slightly halting Common.

"There is one I know of, that lives by the Sea of Moving Ice, just beyond the Spine of the World to the north."

Alya was rubbing her face with her hands when he spoke, and she snaps her head back up to gape at her mentor incredulously.

"The Spine of the World? That's almost a _thousand_ miles away! It'll take _forever_ to get there and back! Didn't you say his soul won't wait that long? Hells, the coming back bit isn't even a guarantee! How can I fight a _dragon _all by myself??"

She stops when she realises she is ranting. Heaving an exasperated sigh, she drops onto her haunches, crossing her arms on her knees and resting her head on them. She is sore, tired and dirty, and all this talk about going on some seemingly long and impossible quest is giving her a headache. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she exhales slowly. With a weak, wry smile, she glances back up at her mentor.

"You weren't kidding when you said the tasks were going to be impossible, were you?" She stares dejectedly at the ground. "Should I even bother trying?"

The look the old man gives her is one of patience and sympathy.

"I never said the tasks were impossible," he corrects her. "But they are very, very difficult. And whether you want to bother trying…" his tone is understanding, non-judgmental. "That is your choice in the end."

Hugging her knees to her chest, Alya finds her gaze travelling back towards Bishop's body. Karnwyr still lies beside him, nuzzling at a lifeless hand. The memory of the ranger interposing himself between her and the poisoned arrow resurfaces in her mind. She remembers how, even as the poison was surging through his system, he had still managed to draw his bow, and fire the arrow back at Garrick as the dwarf loomed over her, ready to deal her a mortal blow.

Her mind wanders further back, to when they were stuck in the Outer Planes. She may not have showed it then, but she had harboured little hope of finding a way back to their own plane.

_And somehow here we are… _

While she had slept through the whole incident in a trauma-induced coma, Bishop had somehow found a way to get them back.

Against all the odds…

Won't all those deeds be considered impossible by some people? People like her? And yet, he had managed to pull them off.

So why can't she do the same?

Many have thought defeating the Illefarn Guardian was an impossibility…

_Who is to say what is impossible?_

Reaching out an arm, she tentatively gives Bishop's cold fingers a squeeze. The wolf responds by licking her hand, all the while making small snuffling noises.

"If you try and fail, you at least tried," she whispers, repeating her master's earlier words. Her gaze continues to linger on the ranger's body. "And if I don't try, I will always be wondering about what could have been. The gods know I will never forgive myself."

She tugs fretfully at a stray lock of reddish-brown hair. "That still begs the question: how am I supposed to fight a dragon alone?"

When she looks up at her mentor, the old man is smiling enigmatically.

"I did not say that you needed to _fight _a dragon…nor did I say that you needed to face it _alone_."


	6. Chapter 5: Departure

**Chapter 5 - Departure**

Bishop awakes to find himself staring up at a wide expanse of featureless grey.

_What happened to the red sky?_

His memory is still hazy, but the last thing he does remember, is staring blankly into a sky of bloody crimson.

_Not_ slate grey.

Sitting up, he looks around him. The terrain is rocky and unremarkable, stretching off unbroken in all directions, with no signs of any mountains or any other geographical features in the distance. It is all just flat, rocky, and grey…

As grey as the skies above.

_What is this place?_

Rising slowly to his feet, he surveys his surroundings again, trying to find something – a sight, a sound, a smell, _anything – _that could help him identify the alien landscape.

No trees, no streams, no hills, no birdsong…nothing that could give his tracking instincts a clue as to where he is.

_How did I get here??_

An image flashes briefly in his mind: a dagger of some sort…blood…a _lot_ of pain…

He glances down at his bare chest, searching for the gaping wound that should be there.

But apart from his old scars, he seems to be unscathed: no wound, no blood, no dagger…

_Right…I'm stumped…_

Whilst he is momentarily at a loss as to what to do, he feels a faint, innate sensation, one that seems to be drawing him in a certain direction.

Gazing towards where the feeling is pulling him, he tries to get his bearings. Is that north? South? East? West? But the lack of a sun, moon or stars in the empty sky makes the task impossible. He sees nothing in the uninspiring stretch ahead that could be attracting his attention, and the route looks no different from the other possible directions he could go. The land is so flat and featureless, that distance is difficult to gauge. For all he knows, it could take days to reach the horizon, or it could take weeks, maybe even longer.

But without anything else to go on, and with an urge to see something other than the flat, gloomy wasteland around him, he decides that anything would be better than standing around in the middle of nowhere, and so he sets off in the direction of the tugging feeling.


	7. Chapter 6: A Fireside Chat

**Chapter 6 – A Fireside Chat**

A bitter cold gust blows a swarm of icy crystals into Alya's face, stinging her cheeks and forcing her to shut her eyes against the onslaught. Shivering, she pulls her heavy fur hood tighter around her face as she urges her increasingly reluctant mount onward, the horse's head dipped low against the freezing winds.

This is the third blizzard they have encountered since they started winding their way through the snowy mountains making up the Spine of the World. One of these storms was so severe, they had to wait it out for a couple of days inside an orc-infested cave. Staying close to the cave entrance, they had fortunately managed to minimise the number of hostile encounters with the local inhabitants, who wisely sought the relative warmth deeper within the mountains. The few that did venture out, though, were obviously unhappy with the trespassers, judging by how they had viciously attacked them on sight.

Her fingers are numb from the biting cold despite being wrapped up in thick woollen mitts. As she rubs her palms together, she curses the many delays they have had to endure, including how she had not taken into account the fact that their progress would be significantly hampered travelling on mountainous terrain. Every day wasted could mean the difference between success and failure, yet at the same time, she knows that it is both foolish and suicidal to rush forward blindly, especially on such treacherous icy paths, steep and winding, and usually with a sheer drop off to one side.

A shadow darts out from around the bend up ahead, its outline obscured behind a curtain of hailstones. As it approaches, Alya makes out the form of the grey wolf, who had run ahead to scout their trail. Shaking clumps of ice off himself, Karnwyr ploughs effortlessly through the deep snow, his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. He looks to be the only one who does not seem bothered by the frigid weather.

She had thought that Karnwyr would rather have stayed behind with Bishop, and had not expected the creature to want to tag along with her. But as she mounted her horse and got ready to leave her mentor's cave, he had followed, as if sensing that her quest had something to do with helping his master. Now, she is glad for the wolf's company, and especially appreciates his fine-tuned sense of smell, which has come in handy on more than one occasion.

Like when they were travelling through Luskan. It was, after all, much quicker to journey through the city rather than around it, and they had to rely on the wolf's nose to sniff out any hidden spies or assassins. Thankfully, those were few and far in between, their main problems having been no more than a couple of foiled bandit attacks. No one had recognised her, the general consensus apparently being that the alleged Slayer of Ember had perished during the battle against the King of Shadows.

_Thank the gods for small mercies…_

Rounding the corner, she catches sight of what looks like a vast expanse of water far in the horizon, barely visible through the driving sleet. Even from this distance, she could make out tiny white ice caps dotting the otherwise deep blue water.

_The Sea of Moving Ice._

How much further are they? A few days if the weather favours them, a week at the worst.

She hears Karnwyr's short bark over the howling winds. The wolf is digging through the snow at the base of a rocky wall. Riding closer, she notices the narrow crack he exposed in the cliff face. With mild amusement, she watches as the grey wolf dashes into the hole before running back out a few seconds later, looking decidedly pleased with himself.

The gap is just about wide enough to lead her horse through. Peering in cautiously, she makes out a small cave in the darkness, one that is roughly ten paces wide, and which ends in a smooth rock wall about a dozen paces in. The ceiling is low, only five feet high or so, but judging by Karnwyr's smug expression as he sniffs at the dank air, it is uninhabited.

Sitting astride her mount at the tight entrance, Alya braces herself against the needles of ice that continue to assail them from all sides, the gale-force winds showing no signs of easing. The piercing cold stabs straight through her fur coat, chilling her to the bone. Shielding her eyes from the frosty shards, she glances up. The sun is all but blotted out by the snowstorm, but the sky has gotten considerably darker. She would guess that it is almost dusk. Part of her wants to march on, to hurry towards their destination now that it is in sight, but it is probably wiser to rest for the night, especially with the worsening blizzard and the increasingly hazardous conditions.

Besides, they might not find a better shelter than this one later…

---

The roaring fire they started is mercifully warming the air inside the small cave a little, although it is still frigid enough that every breath she exhales forms a wispy cloud of condensation.

_Looks like another night bundled up in my heavy coat…_she shivers as she rubs her arms to generate some heat. She is sitting near the cave entrance, looking out through the crack at the snow-swept night. The wind whistles through the narrow opening, wailing eerily and bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes and a bone-numbing chill.

Turning her back to the biting cold, she sees a figure huddled beside the campfire, staring intently into the flickering flames. Getting up carefully so as not to hit her head on the low ceiling of the cave, she walks, hunched over, to the pile of blazing logs, sighing gratefully when the warmth emanating from the hearth gently caresses her cold cheeks.

Plonking herself down beside her companion, she stretches out her long legs.

"Can't sleep?" she asks, keeping her tone light. Her friend shrugs, her eyes never leaving the dancing flames, and she could see the light from the fire reflected in the half-elf's green irises.

Playfully, she encircles her tail around the other woman's arm and tugs her closer.

"In that case," she grins. "You can keep me company on my watch. The gods know I need some help staying awake." Yawning, Neeshka pulls her legs back, and rests an elbow on her knee. Propping her head in her hand, she scratches the base of one protruding horn, all the while regarding the monk with a hint of concern. Everything is happening so fast. To think that it has only been a few weeks since Elanee and herself had returned from their arduous journey through the Outer Planes…

---

Neeshka was sitting in a quiet corner of the Phoenix Tail Inn at Crossroads Keep, her keen eyes on the lookout for any ill-guarded coin purse. Sal had warned her before about stealing from his customers, but since he had never once caught her in the act, she decided to conveniently ignore the barkeep's request. After all, considering she and Elanee had helped the Shard-Bearer defeat the Shadow Lord, and are the only two survivors of the battle, they were being treated somewhat as honoured guests and heroes. Despite the newly installed Knight-Captain Kana's reservations about the tiefling, she had given them both leave to remain in the Keep for as long as they liked.

Elanee was a little worse for wear after their extraplanar ordeal, but the druidess had her heart set on returning to the Mere as soon as she recovered. Thanks to her demonic heritage, Neeshka had fared a little better, but her future plans were far less certain than that of the wood elf's, and so she spent most of her time loitering in the inn, stealing from the odd drunken patron as she pondered what to do with herself.

_From what people say, Waterdeep's a pickpocket's paradise…Baldur's Gate is not too shabby either…I also hear it's pretty nice this time of year…_

When the strange hooded figure entered the tavern and took a seat in a dark corner of the room, a rather substantial looking pouch hanging carelessly from his or her belt, Neeshka just couldn't resist the temptation, especially since the stranger seemed to be preoccupied with staring into space.

Sneaking quietly through the shadows, she made short work of the flimsy string tying the coin purse to the newcomer's belt. The bag felt hard, lumpy, and heavy with promise, and it made an auspicious clinking noise when she shook it. The tiefling had to suppress a giggle of triumphant delight as she stole away to her room, eager to discover the treasures held within the velvet sack.

She was more than a little disappointed, and bewildered, when she tipped the contents out onto her bed, and found nothing more than a handful of rocks, some bits of scrap metal…

And a piece of parchment, rolled up and held in place by a beautiful diamond ring.

Neeshka's breath caught in her throat when she recognised the markings on the ring: the intricate gold band crafted to look like a chain of ivy leaves, the brilliant heart-shaped diamond set among the golden vines…

She removed the ring from the parchment to read the familiar inscription she knew was etched along the inside of the band.

There was no mistaking it…

When she unfurled the note, she did so with uncharacteristically trembling fingers.

Within half an hour of reading the message, she was practically sprinting towards the meeting point in the woods outside the Keep, dragging a confused Elanee with her. The stranger from the inn stood waiting for them under a tall oak tree, features shrouded beneath a long cloak. As the two women approached, however, the figure stepped out from the shadows, and threw back the hood, revealing shoulder-length red hair, and startling green cat's eyes. Neeshka would recognise those eyes anywhere, and she cursed herself for being so easily distracted by the large coin purse whilst in the inn to miss a good look at the stranger's face.

_Well, she sure knows how to catch my attention…_

The reunion between Neeshka, Elanee and Alya were emotional, but quiet enough as to not attract any unwanted attention. Alya made sure of that by pouncing on the tiefling and clamping a hand over her mouth as soon as she started squealing. Apparently the monk wasn't ready to let the rest of Crossroads Keep know of her return just yet.

After a tearful group hug, Alya pulled away, her face suddenly serious.

"I need your help."

By sunrise, both Neeshka and Elanee were riding out of Crossroads Keep with Alya.

That was just a tenday ago.

---

Alya continues to stare distractedly into the fire, hugging her knees protectively to her chest, and absently fingering the diamond ring. Reluctantly returned to its rightful owner – _"Oh, you mean you want it back?" _– it now hangs on a leather thong around her neck.

Neeshka knows that look.

Something is troubling her.

"You okay?" the tiefling asks, prodding her with the tip of her tail.

The monk shrugs, but says nothing, one hand still playing with the ring on her throat. The light from the campfire bounces off something shiny in her other hand, and Neeshka spots a small, empty glass vial.

"Ah," the tiefling says simply. Alya is obviously worried about the fool's quest they are on. And for good reason, too. Three women against a dragon? How on Toril are they going to pull that off? Neeshka cringes at the thought of the hare-brained scheme they have in mind.

"You sure your idea will work?"

Alya shrugs again. "No."

"That's reassuring…" the tiefling quips.

_How did we let her talk us into this? White dragon's blood? For a _dead_ man?_ _And one who very nearly got us all killed at that?_

Neeshka still has trouble trying to understand it. She remembers her incredulous reaction in the woods outside the Keep, when Alya had first asked the tiefling and the druidess for help.

"You want to _what_?!" she had exclaimed, when the half-elf expressed her desire to essentially try and bring the son-of-a-whore back to life. "But…_why_??" she spluttered.

Alya held up her hands helplessly. "I'm not too sure myself…" she had said. "I guess, considering that he's saved my hide so many times, I just feel like I owe him…"

"But you _don't _owe him!" Neeshka had insisted, her voice rising in anger at the memory of Bishop's treachery. "You don't owe him anything!" she ranted on, gesticulating wildly. "He betrayed us, all of us! He betrayed you!" Alya's frantic gestures and Elanee's shushing quickly reminded the rogue that they were trying not to draw attention to themselves. Crossing her arms indignantly, she continued in a lower voice, "I don't care how much he's helped you since…the way I see it, that was probably his way of paying _you _back for all the trouble he caused us! I'd say you guys are just about even now…" She sniffed disdainfully. "Besides, the bastard probably got what he deserved."

There was a fleeting look of hurt on the monk's face, but then she had wordlessly led them further into the forest, until they reached a secluded clearing. There, to both Neeshka's and Elanee's confusion, Alya had started to undo the front of her robe. When she pulled back her shirt, they gasped at the sight of her exposed chest.

There was an ugly, jagged line of raised, pink flesh down her front, but it was not the scar she had gotten from the Shard as a child. This one was relatively fresh, much bigger, and it completely obscured her older scar tissue.

Both women had listened in horror as Alya recounted her close shave with the githyanki in the Outer Planes, all the while gawking at the hideous new scar. Neeshka had shuddered as Alya recalled how the gith had torn the Shard out from her heart. How in the world did she survive that? When the monk explained that it was Bishop, of all people, who had saved her, _and_ who had nursed her back to health, she could not believe her pointed ears.

_Bishop? Actually _caring_ for someone??_

Neeshka had an absurd image of the surly ranger in an apron, bringing Alya breakfast in bed, pouring her a cup of tea, fluffing her pillows, and generally pampering her like a baby.

_Nope…not gonna happen…_

It hadn't made much sense then, and it still doesn't make much sense now.

Kneading her temples right below both horns, she sighs, "Remind me again _why_ we are doing this…"

Alya's eyes never leave the crackling fire. "I don't know," she admits. "Partly to give myself peace of mind, partly because I feel indebted to him somehow."

"But…it's _Bishop_!" Neeshka cries in disbelief. "You know, the evil prick who looks like he has babies for breakfast? Who would no sooner stab you in the back than bed you?"

Alya smirks at her description, finally drawing her eyes away from the flames long enough to glance at the tiefling. "I know…I keep telling myself the same thing." She has a faraway look on her face as she wistfully sticks an index finger in and out of the too-large ring around her neck. "I never expected him to do all those things he did either…"

Neeshka shakes her head. "I can't believe he'd do anything like that without demanding a king's ransom in return…I mean, stepping into the path of a poisoned arrow? I just can't see him doing that! That's like the ultimate sacrifice! Hells, even I would think twice!"

She finally pauses to draw breath. "It seems all his blabbering about having feelings for you may have some truth to it." Her eyes twinkle in amusement. "Although he did have the weirdest way of showing it…"

She gasps as a thought strikes her.

"Alya! You're not starting to have feelings for him, are you?"

The half-elf gapes at Neeshka for a split second, her eyes wide, before quickly turning away, cheeks blushing.

"N-no! Of course not! Not after all he's done! It's just that…" She chews the tip of her thumb thoughtfully, still refusing to meet the tiefling's probing gaze. "After what we've been through, I've started to see him as…a friend…again…"

Neeshka snorts. "A friend?" she repeats sceptically. "Is that it?"

Alya glances at her furtively before looking away again. "Yes!"

"You're willing to do all this for just 'a friend'?"

"Yeah…"

"Even _after _what said friend did to Casavir?"

As soon as she said it, Neeshka realises that she has touched a raw nerve. Alya's tone is steady, but her eyes shine with an untold sorrow. "We could not have done anything more for Casavir," she states firmly. "It has taken me a long time to finally see that." Her voice drops to a whisper. "As much as I would like to, I cannot blame Bishop for what he did."

For a moment, both women are quiet.

"Hey, I'm sorry." Neeshka eyes Alya from under her lashes, looking suitably contrite. "I didn't mean to –"

"It's okay," Alya interjects quickly. "Forget it." She is playing with the ring again, twirling it about between her fingers. The clear diamond catches the light from the flames, splitting it into a dazzling array of colour.

The tiefling shifts tentatively closer.

"Look," she begins. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to help out." She gives the smaller woman a hug. "I still don't trust him, but I trust you. So if you think you need to do this, then I'm with you."

"Me too!" Elanee's voice chimes in from the dark corner of the cave. They see the wood elf's dark silhouette as she sits up in her bedroll.

"What, you think I can actually sleep with all that chattering?" she asks with mock annoyance.

Neeshka laughs when she sees Alya finally cracking a small smile.

"Just as well," she tells Elanee. "It's your watch next!"

Springing up, the tiefling bumps her head against the low ceiling. "Ow!" She rubs her sore crown. "Next time, we choose a cave where we won't risk getting a concussion every time we stand up!"

Hunching forward, she makes her way to her sleeping bag. Plopping down onto it, she stretches languidly.

"You should try and get some sleep too, Alya," she yawns, as she pulls the covers over herself. The blanket seems to do nothing to keep the frigid cold out.

Just then, Karnwyr lopes into the cave, covered in a thin layer of dusty snow. Shaking itself, it pads over to Alya's side and curls up beside her, laying its massive head on her lap. Neeshka watches in amazement from under her sheets as Alya pets the grey wolf, and it returns her attention by grabbing her arm in its huge jaws. Those sharp teeth could easily take off her fingers, yet the creature is gnawing gently, almost affectionately, on her hand, bushy tail wagging like a puppy's.

By the way it follows Alya around, anyone who didn't know better would have thought that the animal belonged to her, instead of to a certain ranger…

_Yeah right…_Neeshka thinks sleepily before shutting her eyes.

_Just a friend, huh?_


	8. Chapter 7: A Frozen Find

**Chapter 7 – A Frozen Find**

"Hold still, won't you!" Elanee admonishes as Neeshka squirms under her grasp.

"But it _tickles_!" the tiefling protests as she giggles helplessly. The druidess is trying to inspect a wound on the side of the rogue's neck, but Neeshka is not making it easy for her.

"I'm alright, really!" she squeals again as she tries to pull away.

Rolling her eyes and clucking her tongue, Elanee firmly pushes the tiefling's head to the side with one hand, and holds her shoulder down with the other, exposing the bleeding cut and eliciting a shrill "Ow!" from Neeshka. Thank Silvanus, it is nothing life-threatening, but that frost giant's blade had come dangerously close to nicking her carotid artery. Uttering the words to a healing spell, Elanee watches with relief and satisfaction as the torn flesh begins to knit back together, until all that remains is a scab of drying blood.

She finally releases the struggling thief. "You know, if you're going to insist on wearing just light armour and refusing to carry a shield, you should be more careful in fights!" she scolds.

"But I _was_ being careful!" Neeshka maintains. "He just caught me sneaking up on him!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Elanee catches Alya sniggering, as she watches their exchange with unconcealed amusement.

"And don't get me started on you!" she warns, whirling on the monk, even as she tries to keep herself from grinning. "You don't even _wear _armour, yet you run straight into the thick of battle! I'm a healer, not a miracle worker, so if anything happens, don't expect me to pick up bits and pieces of you off the battlefield and try to put you together again!"

Alya bows her head in mock repentance. "Yes, mommy," she says, a cheeky gleam in her eye. "Can I have some healing now, please?" She holds out her swollen fists. "I think I may have broken a knuckle…"

Smiling, the druidess gently takes the half-elf's hands in hers, as Neeshka begins looting the frost giant corpses. There is a pinkish tinge to Alya's cheeks from her exertions during the melee, and her green eyes are shining brightly with excitement. A hint of a smile plays across her lips even as she winces when Elanee probes her bruised knuckle.

_Just like old times..._Elanee thinks fondly as she mutters another healing incantation. She is so glad to see Alya somewhat cheerful again. The monk had barely cracked a smile since they started their journey from Crossroads Keep, but now that their goal is in sight, the familiar glint of steely determination is in her eyes once again. Alya has always been one to throw herself into whatever job needs to be done, and to do so with high spirits. She could be feeling wholly sorry for herself one moment, but when push comes to shove, she would be completely focused on the task at hand.

_This quest of hers appears to be giving her a sense of purpose, _the elf muses. _Who am I to question the hopelessness of the mission? _

If this is what it takes to get her to smile again, Elanee will help in any way she could.

Neeshka returns from raiding the dead bodies, pouting in disappointment. "Nothing," she sighs. "I much prefer fighting yetis. At least we can always be guaranteed some nice fur pelts."

Elanee chuckles, thinking about how the last snow yeti that attacked them is now a nice fluffy blanket that keeps the tiefling warm at night. Letting go of Alya's hands, she watches as the monk gingerly flexes her healed fingers. Seemingly satisfied, she proceeds to crack her knuckles, the sound of her popping joints making the wood elf cringe.

"_Must _you do that?" she asks with an exaggerated shudder. "It's such an awful habit!"

"But it feels _sooo _good!" Neeshka pipes up. Grabbing her own tail in her hands, she bends it in such a way that loud cracking noises could be heard. "Ahh…!" she moans in pleasure. "It just loosens your joints up completely!"

Elanee makes a disgusted face, and the other two women were laughing at her discomfort when a thunderous rumble interrupts them. They turn just in time to see huge chunks of solid ice tumbling off the edge of the Reghed Glacier and smashing spectacularly into the sea, the frozen boulders throwing up sprays of salty mist on impact, as they add themselves to the multitude of icebergs already floating in the arctic waters.

After a few moments of silence, Neeshka whistles in wonderment.

"You must be glad none of us can crack anything _that _loudly…"

The druidess gazes up at the towering wall of ice in awe. Here is nature in all its wildest splendour: a vast frozen river, an immense sheet of ice moving slowly and inexorably towards the sea. The sunlight bounces off the expansive glacier, causing it to appear as if it were illuminated from within, and Elanee has to shield her eyes against the bright white glare.

She looks again at the edge of the permafrost, where it meets the ocean. As it had demonstrated earlier with its impressive display of crashing ice, the glacier, despite its placid appearance, can be as deadly as it is majestic. One small misstep could mean falling into a deep crevasse, or triggering a sensational avalanche.

They will have to tread carefully.

---

"Are you sure we're on the right track?" Neeshka asks as she is forced to jump back from another yawning chasm that suddenly materialises beneath her feet. The thick snow has deceptively concealed all the large ravines criss-crossing the massive ice floe, making their journey slow and treacherous. "I mean, why would a dragon want to live somewhere as dangerous as this?"

"Because it can," Elanee replies simply, as she carefully prods the ground with her foot before each step. "There are a few sturdy ice caves dotted about the glacier that are highly secure because of how difficult it is to reach them. They make ideal homes for dragons, since they can fly, and so will have no trouble traversing all this ice."

Alya remains silent as she carefully sidesteps the gaping hole Neeshka had created, leading her mount behind her by the reins. With all the hidden pitfalls, it would be madness to try and gallop across these icy plains on their horses. Travelling on foot, although relatively less hazardous, is excruciatingly slow, and Elanee can tell that Alya is getting increasingly frustrated by their delayed progress.

As she negotiates her way around another wide gully, Elanee senses the presence of a large life form. She holds out a hand to stop the others. "Something's nearby."

"Not another polar bear, I hope," Neeshka says.

"I don't think so…" Closing her eyes, Elanee reaches out towards the creature's aura. "It feels larger – much larger."

"How far away is it?" Alya asks, a hint of urgency and hope in her voice.

"I'm not sure…" The druidess glances around them before pointing towards a raised embankment of ice in the distance. From where they stand, they could see what looks like caves dotting the smooth surface of the frozen mound.

"That way."

Alya follows her gaze, nodding eagerly. "That looks promising. Let's go."

"Wait," Elanee places a hand gently on the monk's arm, worried that her anxiousness is impairing her judgment. "We have to take this slowly. White dragons are known to be pretty territorial." She looks back at the ice caves where the life force is emanating from. There is a rather hostile air permeating its aura.

"Just so we know what to expect," the wood elf continues, "how much do you know about the one that's supposed to live here?"

Alya rummages through her coat pocket before pulling out a small notebook. Inside are all manners of random scribblings and hand-sketched maps, all potentially useful information the monk has jotted down. Flipping through the pages while wearing thick woollen mitts proves to be a challenge in itself, but she finally finds what she is looking for.

"According to my mentor," she begins, "it calls itself Xarzith. Apparently the name means 'ice' – quite fitting really…" She falls silent momentarily as she scans through the notes. "Female…relatively young for a dragon…shouldn't be more than a hundred years old…"

She snaps the small book shut. "That's all I have."

"Hmm…" Elanee muses. "White dragons tend to become more savage as they mature. This one could be young enough that it's not as ferocious yet, but it's still old enough to be pretty powerful…we must proceed with caution."

She contemplates the far-fetched strategy they have in mind. Whether it will work or not, relies so much on one important detail…

"Is your mentor sure that this Xarzith –"

The druidess is interrupted by a series of sharp, insistent barks. Karnwyr, who had wandered ahead, is now ploughing through the snow towards them, yapping excitedly. He runs a circle around Alya before taking a few steps back the way he came.

"What is it, boy?" the monk asks, as the wolf turns around and yips at her. Up to his chest in the snow, he wades forward a bit more before stopping again, looking at them expectantly.

"I think he's found something," Neeshka remarks, but Alya is already trudging after the animal, horse in tow.

He seems to be leading them towards the ice caves.

Picking their way carefully through the thigh-deep snow, the women follow the bounding wolf, as he alternates between racing ahead a few paces, and slowing down to wait patiently for them to catch up. The looming wall of ice seems to grow taller and more foreboding as they approach it.

Finally, Karnwyr stops beside what looks like a partially buried block of ice. Snuffling loudly, he begins digging at the base of the frozen boulder, throwing up clumps of snow in the process.

"Ooh, what's he found?" Neeshka asks curiously, as she peeks at Karnwyr's antics from over Alya's shoulder, dodging the flying bits of snow from the wolf's enthusiastic excavating.

Elanee steps up as well for a closer look.

There is something about that chunk of ice that is bothering her…

Karnwyr finally stops digging, and moves aside to allow Alya to inspect his find.

Kneeling down, the half-elf bends forward to peer at what the wolf has uncovered, and just as quickly recoils, her eyes flying open in shock. Emitting a startled gasp, she jumps back to her feet, her hands to her mouth.

"What? What? What?" Neeshka demands inquisitively, as she bounces up and down behind Alya, craning her neck to take a look. Whatever she sees actually renders the tiefling momentarily speechless.

"Oh eww…!" she finally utters.

Elanee steps up to both women, squinting into the frozen block. She, too, inhales sharply, as the horrible realisation of what was bugging her earlier about the lump of ice literally stares her straight in the face.

A man, possibly a tundra barbarian, lies encased within the mass of ice. His arms are held up in front of him, fingers curled, as if he were trying to claw his way out of his glacial prison, fighting for his life right up until the very end. His face is contorted into a mask of pain and terror, his mouth frozen open in a silent scream. His hollow eyes, wide and bulging, are filled with abject fear as they gaze blankly back at the three women.

Elanee is the first to back away from the petrified corpse.

"Be on your guard, girls."

Only one creature is capable of completely freezing a full-grown man into a block of solid ice like that.

"We're getting close."


	9. Chapter 8: Dragon's Den

**Chapter 8 – Dragon's Den**

Alya, Elanee and Neeshka weave their way through the scattered outcrops of ice that jut out from the snow like jagged crystalline teeth, all the while averting their eyes from the grisly contents imprisoned within the frozen formations. The closer they get to Xarzith's lair, the more solid ice blocks they come across, each one containing one of the dragon's many hapless victims, their features locked forever in a gruesome expression of pure terror. Humans, dwarves, goblins, yetis, a couple of reindeer…even a whale, lie in various states of suspended animation in this macabre arctic graveyard, strewn about the snow like haphazardly arranged, ghastly ice sculptures.

_What kind of monster would freeze their prey and just leave them lying about like that, until it gets hungry?_

The women have had to leave their mounts behind in a sheltered lee some distance back. Like Elanee, the horses seem to detect the presence of some malevolent force, and were becoming too skittish to control. Karnwyr, too, appears to sense something, as he slinks silently beside Alya, sniffing the air cautiously, his muscles tensed, his hackles slightly raised. The wolf looks ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

When they arrive at the base of the escarpment, they are greeted by an almost vertical, twenty foot climb over loose gravel and snow, separating them from what looks like a cave cut into the ice wall at the top of the ledge.

It doesn't look like Karnwyr will be able to follow them up there.

"Karnwyr, stay," Alya tells the wolf, who dutifully sits down at the bottom of the precipitous slope. Initially, she had found it both difficult and awkward trying to communicate with the creature, but after a bit of trial and error, she has found that the wolf seems to understand her as long as she uses simple, short sentences and one- or two-syllable words.

_Talking to animals now…Daeghun could make a ranger out of me yet…_

The climb to reach the overhanging ice shelf, despite being arduous and involving constant scrabbling to gain purchase on the slippery cliff face, is uneventful enough, although Elanee did lose her footing once, knocking free a small shower of debris onto Alya, who was climbing close behind her, nearly causing the monk to slip as well. Thankfully, disaster was averted by a quick-thinking Neeshka, who managed to grab hold of Elanee's wrist to keep her from falling.

As Alya pulls herself up onto the edge of the ice ridge, she finds Elanee standing before the gaping maw of the cave, her eyes half-shut.

"Wherever the dragon is," the wood elf mutters as she squints into the dark depths of the cavern, "it is not in there."

Alya peers into the cave as well, but can discern nothing in the pitch blackness. She doesn't know if she should feel relieved they are not encountering the dragon just yet, or disappointed that they have lots more climbing ahead of them to try and seek out the dragon in some of the higher caves.

Neeshka groans, echoing Alya's sentiments, as she prepares to scale the wall of ice again.

"Wait…" Elanee stops them suddenly. She is looking towards a snowdrift to the side of the cave entrance.

"There's something there…"

Curious, Alya wades towards the snow pile, only to be held back by Neeshka.

"Woah, hold on there! That snow's trapped!" Cautiously, the tiefling approaches the snowdrift and crouches down beside it. Lightly brushing off the top layer of powdery flakes, she uncovers some sort of device.

"A frost trap, and a really strong one at that…" Neeshka murmurs, more to herself than to the others. "Give me a moment to disarm it…"

As the tiefling sets to work, Alya paces impatiently as her mind wanders, running through what they are about to do.

_According to Sifu, white dragons are much more feral than other dragons, but they are by no means stupid…any creature that can set a powerful trap to protect its belongings are definitely pretty shrewd…but what else did Sifu say? Don't expect a white dragon to be willing to negotiate…they usually attack first and ask questions later…_

_I could swear there was one other important bit of information…_

A series of sharp, urgent barks from Karnwyr at the foot of the bluff interrupts her thoughts. It sounds like a warning, and Alya is about to peek over the edge of the precipice to see what is upsetting the wolf, when she notices a huge shadow looming overhead. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a flash of white, coming straight at them. Pushing Elanee aside, she tumbles to the side, just as a massive claw gouges three deep parallel grooves into the ground where they were standing.

_Oh…right…I remember now…_

_They also like to _ambush_ their enemies…_

The huge serpentine shape hovers briefly in the air before swooping back in for another attack. This time, a blast of frost shoots out from its mouth, forcing Alya to dive behind a rock. She feels the reverberating impact of the dragon's breath slamming into her meagre shelter, as the atmospheric temperature around her appears to plummet suddenly. When she looks up, the boulder is completely encased in ice.

_To quote Neeshka: "Woah…"_

The white dragon alights before her, shaking the ground on landing. Throwing its head back, it emits a loud, angry roar, one that sounds both low and rumbling, and shrill and high-pitched at the same time. For a moment, all Alya could do is stare at the magnificent creature in awe. Probably ten feet tall and fifteen feet long, its hulking, well-muscled body is covered in thick, pure white scales. Its enormous silvery wings are leathery, bat-like, and frayed around the edges. A high crest crowns the top of its streamlined head, and a spiny dewlap protects its throat. Its razor sharp teeth and claws remind the monk of large, pointy icicles hanging from frozen branches, poised to impale anything unlucky enough to wander beneath them. Every breath the dragon exhales sends out wisps of freezing mist, and it exudes a faint, distinct odour that smells vaguely of alcohol. The eyes glaring back at the monk are the colour of the icy sea itself, a clear, pale aquamarine that glows with a frigid light and a carnal intelligence. Just looking into those cold, piercing blue eyes is enough to send a shiver down Alya's spine.

She sees the white dragon inhaling deeply, as it prepares to unleash another round of its icy breath.

"Xarzith!" the monk calls out, holding her hands in front of her to show she is unarmed. "Wait! Please, hear us out!"

But the dragon completely ignores her as a cone of white frost issues from its gaping jaws, aimed directly at the half-elf. Lunging to the side to evade the freezing missile, Alya gasps as she feels the frigid blast graze past her shoulder. Icy needles of pain shoot through her arm as the extreme cold burns away her coat and eats its way into her flesh. Landing awkwardly, she rolls herself up to a crouched position, gripping her frostbitten shoulder, her hair still crackling from the dragon's breath.

"Xarzith!" she tries again. "Please, listen! We don't want to fight you!"

She dodges a swipe from the dragon's thick, powerful tail, the blow barely missing her by a few inches.

_Feral…unwilling to talk…attacks on sight…_Her mentor has been spot-on so far…

Hopefully he is also right about that one most important detail…

"Alya!" Neeshka calls from her hiding place in the shadows, near the trap she has just disarmed, a freshly-dug hole now marring the once pristine snowdrift. The tiefling throws something towards the monk, who carefully catches it in both hands. The ovoid, ivory-coloured object is the size of a melon, cold and stony to the touch, with a slightly gravelly texture.

_Thank the gods, _sifu _is right…_

The white dragon stops its relentless assault, one claw raised in mid-swing, when it recognises its precious egg cradled in the half-elf's arms.


	10. Chapter 9: Ransom

**Chapter 9 - Ransom**

"_Now _will you be reasonable?" Alya asks, as she holds the dragon's egg in front of her like a shield.

Xarzith emits an enraged, ear-splitting howl, one that grates painfully on the monk's nerves. If she weren't holding on to the egg, her hands would be covering her ears by now.

"How _dare_ you threaten me, you in_sss_ignificant in_sss_ect!" it hisses, its voice harsh and metallic, reminding Alya of the sound of clashing blades. "I _sss_hall _sss_ee you _sss_uffer dearly for thi_sss_!"

"We want no trouble," the monk says from behind the egg. "Just a small favour from you, and you can have your egg back."

Xarzith snarls menacingly, the sound resembling the screech of steel against steel. "Fooli_sss_h creature! I will _not_ be _sss_o ea_sss_ily blackmailed!" The dragon's mighty chest puffs up as it breathes in, ready to release another icy blast.

_Damn!_ Alya knows that the white dragon's egg is immune to even extreme cold, and so would be completely unscathed if it gets caught by Xarzith's breath.

She, however, will not be so lucky.

The monk cringes at what she has to do next.

_Eldath, please forgive me…_

As the dragon is just about to exhale another cone of frost, Alya takes a deep breath of her own, and brings the egg down against the frozen boulder beside her with a dull _thump!_ The jarring sensation from the impact travels up her arms, sending fresh jolts of pain through her injured shoulder.

With what could possibly count as a draconic gasp, Xarzith flinches perceptibly and draws back. Gingerly, Alya scans the egg for damage, and sighs inwardly in relief when her gamble has apparently paid off; she had not struck the egg hard enough to crack the thick, hard shell, but she had hit it with enough force to intimidate the dragon into holding its fire.

And to make it seem like she means business.

"It is but a simple request," she continues in a calm manner, as she tries to maintain her callous and calculating façade, all the while feeling mortified by what she just had to do, and what she could so easily have done, if her estimation of the shell's toughness was even slightly off.

_I am endangering an innocent life for ransom…_

Xarzith appears to hesitate as she eyes her egg anxiously, a low, ominous rumble coming from deep within her throat. The rolling sound gets progressively louder, until it peaks in a thunderous growl, as the dragon stamps a front foot in frustration, sending tremors through the earth.

"Fine!" she snaps fiercely, her cold eyes blazing. "What i_sss_ it you want?"

Alya fishes the small glass vial out of her pocket. "I need some of your blood." She holds up the tiny bottle. "Just this much. I'm sure you won't miss it."

The dragon hisses again. "You want to draw blood from me?" she demands incredulously. "_Me?? _Xar_zzz_ith of Reghed?"

"Either that, or I could wait for your precious wyrmling to hatch, and use its blood instead." Despite cringing at her own cruel words, Alya goes on, "In fact, why wait at all? I might try to see if I can extract some blood from it now."

_Gods, where is all this depravity coming from? _she thinks to herself, as she once again lifts the egg over the boulder, threatening to smash it against the rock.

"_Sss_top!" Xarzith calls out, her sibilant voice sounding authoritative even now, as her hand is being forced. She fixes the monk with a murderous glare, but when she speaks, the dragon's tone is deliberately measured.

"There can only be two rea_sss_on_sss_ for wanting my blood…" she contemplates, as she regards the monk with her frosty blue eyes. "Either to u_sss_e it a_sss_ a poi_sss_on, or a_sss_ an antidote…for red dragon'_sss_ blood." She continues to scrutinise Alya, and the half-elf tries not to squirm under the creature's penetrating gaze.

"To do what you are doing, it _sss_mack_sss_ of de_sss_peration…which _sss_ugge_sss_t_sss_ to me that you do not want the blood to poi_sss_on anyone…" Xarzith arches a scaly, ridged eyebrow in a show of mild surprise. "You _sss_eek the cure for _sss_omeone…and to be willing to ri_sss_k my wrath, that per_sss_on mu_sss_t mean a lot to you." The dragon is obviously enjoying Alya's discomfort, as she probes deeper into her emotions.

_Jeez…what is it with everyone's obsession with my relationship with Bishop?_

"Tell me, little one," Xarzith drawls in that resonant voice of hers, "Will savingthi_sss_ one per_sss_on, be worth all the pain and _sss_uffering that my promi_sss_ed vengeance will wreak upon your mi_sss_erable life?"

Alya taps the egg softly but impatiently against the rock, the _thud_,_ thud_,_ thud_ sounding ominous even to her own ears, as she struggles to maintain her advantage over the dragon. With a worried grimace, Xarzith stops talking.

"Enough, dragon. Will you give the blood willingly, or will I have to take it from your little hatchling here?"

Xarzith makes a throaty, angry noise, but reluctantly settles down on all fours, folding up her expansive leathery wings.

"I _sss_hall make _sss_ure you live to regret thi_sss_…" she fumes, as she continues to stare icy daggers at the monk.

Alya tosses the glass phial to Neeshka. The tiefling's eyes are wide with fear, but she merely nods. "Just like we planned, huh?" she gulps, unsheathing her dagger as she approaches the white dragon cautiously. Still holding the egg hostage, Alya sends a quick prayer to the gods, hoping that she isn't sending her friend into, quite literally, the jaws of death.

Neeshka finally reaches the beast's side, and for a moment the tiefling merely gapes at the majestic creature towering before her, muscles rippling fluidly beneath the frosted scales, magnificent wings gleaming with a pearly sheen. Then, picking a relatively vulnerable spot on Xarzith's shoulder, in between overlapping plates, she draws back her dagger.

"S-sorry in advance," she says to the dragon, her voice high and squeaky, as she shuts her eyes.

Holding her breath, Alya does the same.

The rogue's blade slides neatly underneath the hardened scales. The dragon barely flinches, the only indication that she had felt the cut being a reflexive twitching of her shoulder muscles. When the dagger is withdrawn, a fine line of crimson seeps out, contrasting sharply against the brilliant whiteness of Xarzith's hide.

Alya exhales in relief, as she watches Neeshka hastily catching some of the blood in the empty vial, looking all too eager to get as much distance between herself and the gigantic dragon, as quickly as possible. When the tiefling stoppers up the flask, the monk nearly cheers aloud.

_We've got it…_she could hardly believe they had pulled it off. All this time, the enormity of their task had not escaped her, and despite her determination to try her hardest, she had never seriously thought that they would actually succeed.

Nearly giddy with triumphant exhilaration, she silently urges the tiefling to back away from the dragon. She sees Neeshka's shoulders slump slightly, her tensed muscles finally relaxing now that her unenviable job is done, as she turns to hurry away from Xarzith.

Just as the tiefling is scurrying by one of her massive front claws, Xarzith pounces, her movements incredibly fast for a creature of her size.

"Nee!" Alya gasps, her grip on the egg tightening involuntarily. She hears the tiefling's terrified shriek as the dragon's talons close around her, pinning her to the ground.

_My fault…this is all my fault…_

Xarzith is gazing at the monk smugly, one powerful limb easily holding the struggling tiefling down.

"My egg…" she says simply, as she casually lifts a razor-like claw, and pushes it down on the hollow of Neeshka's neck, applying just enough pressure to indent the skin and to elicit a frightened whimper from the tiefling, but not enough to draw blood – yet.

Xarzith nods at the precious bundle in Alya's arms.

"Hand it over."


	11. Chapter 10: Hostage Trade

**Chapter 10 – Hostage Trade**

Alya clutches the dragon's egg to her chest, her mind racing as she tries to think of a way to salvage the fast deteriorating situation.

"Release her, dragon!" she demands, fighting to keep her voice steady, as she desperately waves the egg over the frozen boulder.

This time, though, Xarzith merely cackles shrilly, her cold eyes gleaming with malevolent glee.

"You do not have it in you to commit _sss_uch a deed," she states almost matter-of-factly. "Anyone willing to ri_sss_k _sss_o much for _sss_omeone el_sss_e, will value life more than that – both the life of the unborn wyrmling, and that of your friend here." To prove her point, the dragon gives Neeshka a none-too-gentle squeeze, and the tiefling gasps as the icy talons tighten around her.

"Is that so?" Alya asks, still trying futilely to play mind games, although she is fast losing her psychological advantage.

_Think, Alya, think!_

At the moment, though, she is at a complete loss, and can perceive no other alternative but to stubbornly maintain her false air of brutality. Twisting her mouth into a sneer even Bishop would be proud of, she keeps the egg poised above the solid rock. "Are you willing to wager your pretty egg here to see just how desperate I am?"

The dragon's eyes twinkle dangerously. "Are _you_ willing to wager your pretty _friend_ here in a conte_sss_t of ruthle_ssssss_ne_ssssss_?" Without waiting for an answer, Xarzith continues, "Very well, then. At the count of three, we both kill our re_sss_pective ho_sss_tage_sss_. What do you _sss_ay?" Her crystal blue eyes narrow into cruel slits, as she again rests the pointed tip of a hooked claw across Neeshka's neck.

"One…"

Alya's hold on the egg wavers slightly.

_She won't harm Nee…not when I have her egg…_

_Would she?_

_Gods above, she called my bluff! What did I just get myself…and Nee…into??_

Xarzith's scaly lips part in a cold-blooded grin, revealing a row of dagger-like teeth, glimmering like jagged bits of polished metal.

"Two…"

Alya's hands begin to shake, and despite the frigid climate, beads of perspiration begin to form on the monk's forehead. She looks again at the beautiful opalescent egg. Could she really bring herself to smash it into the rock? And if she does, what would become of Neeshka, Elanee and herself, once she destroys their only bit of leverage?

_I…can't…do…this…_

Almost casually, Xarzith presses down slightly on the tiefling's skin, piercing the tender flesh with her sharpened nail. Neeshka cries out as a trickle of blood forms on her neck.

"Thr–"

"No, stop!"

Incredibly, the dragon complies, but her sharp talon remains pressed to the tiefling's throat. With a victorious sneer, Xarzith eyes Alya expectantly.

"Ju_sss_t a_sss_ I thought," she sniggers, "you do not have what it take_sss_. _Sss_uch concern for the live_sss_ of other_sss_…it is a grave weakne_ssssss_."

_Now where have I heard that before?_

Her shoulders slumping in defeat, the monk lowers the egg.

"Let her go, Xarzith," she says resignedly, "and I'll return your egg safely."

"I don't think _sss_o…" comes the amused reply. A forked tongue flits out from between the needle-like teeth. "_I _am making the demand_sss_ now. _You _bring my seed to me fir_sss_t."

Alya hesitates; her possession of the egg is the last thing standing between them and an all-out attack from the dragon. After their rather daring ransom attempt, she doubts Xarzith would be so magnanimous as to just let them walk away.

Cradling their sole bargaining chip protectively to her breast, she shakes her head warily. "And what precisely will I gain from doing that?"

Xarzith chuckles as she taps a clawed finger on Neeshka's cheek, making the tiefling whimper. "What about being _sss_pared the guilt of _sss_eeing your dear friend here dying before your eye_sss, _a_sss_ a direct re_sss_ult of your choice of action_sss_?" She trains those icy blue eyes on Alya. "You're hardly in a po_sss_ition to bargain, little one. Your impudence will not go unpuni_sss_hed. But if you do a_sss _I _sss_ay, then perhap_sss_ I may con_sss_ider making your death_sss_ _sss_wift, and – _near – _painle_ssssss_…"

_Shite, shite, shite…_

Wracked with uncertainty, Alya looks from the egg in her hands to Xarzith, to Neeshka trapped in the dragon's grasp, and finally to Elanee, who has been silent ever since they had found the egg. She remembers the druidess' reluctance to go along with the plan from the start, loathe as she is to upset the natural balance of things, as she sees it. It was only with a considerable amount of persuasion that they had managed to convince her to even help out with searching for the egg. As agreed, however, she would stand aside as soon as a nest is found, and play no further part in their plan. And that is precisely what she did.

But now…

Elanee appears to be fingering what looks like a small piece of white granite, which she has extracted from her components pouch. When their eyes meet, the wood elf furtively glances at the edge of the cliff, and her head twitches almost imperceptibly in the same direction.

As understanding of what Elanee is trying to say dawns, Alya feels another wave of regret.

_I am so burning in the Hells for this…_

Steeling herself for what she has to do, she turns back to Xarzith.

"You want your seed back, dragon?" Holding it at arm's length in front of her, she draws a deep breath.

"Well, go get it."

With a sudden movement, she hurls the dragon's egg off the ice shelf.

"_Nooo…!!_" Xarzith emits a high-pitched wail as she watches the opaline shape sailing through the air and disappearing over the lip of the precipice. Unfurling her large membranous wings, she pushes herself off the ground, and dives off the ledge after her egg, leaving Neeshka lying in shock in the snow.

Alya rushes over to the tiefling, followed closely by Elanee, and they both help Neeshka to her feet.

"Run!" the druidess shouts, as she lowers herself off the edge of the escarpment.

"You don't have to tell me twice!" Neeshka mutters as she gingerly touches the bleeding nick on her neck.

The three women begin their descent down the slippery slope, half-climbing and half-sliding in their haste, with Alya's frostbitten shoulder protesting painfully against the exertion all the way. Karnwyr, having been bored and lonely at the bottom of the mount, barks excitedly when he sees them coming, and starts to run around in tight circles.

Alya drops the last six feet to the ground, landing on all fours in the deep snow. A couple of soft _whump_sbeside her tells the monk that Elanee and Neeshka have done the same.

Just as they are getting to their feet, a massive, foreboding shadow is cast over them, and Karnwyr lets out a warning yip. Xarzith, her steely eyes flashing murder, alights in front of them, cutting off their escape route. Streams of icy mist trail out from her flaring nostrils, and her lips are pulled back in a feral snarl. Her precious egg is nestled safely, and surprisingly gently, in the same massive claws that had so roughly manhandled Neeshka only moments before.

"Pathetic creature_sss_!" The white dragon rages in her metallic voice, as she swipes at Alya with the back of her free hand. Unable to dodge in time, the grazing blow sends the monk flying. Alya experiences a fleeting sensation of being airborne, before sprawling awkwardly in the snow, the wind knocked out of her. Her head swimming, she is vaguely aware of Xarzith moving closer to her, still ranting angrily.

"You will all pay for what you did! I _sss_hall make you _sss_uffer! By the time I am through with you, you will be _praying _for death!"

Clumsily, Alya scrabbles in the snow to try and get up, but the ground appears to tilt and lurch beneath her. Then, she feels a pair of hands hauling her to her feet, and she hears Neeshka's voice close to her ear.

"Now, Ela!"

Alya's vision refocuses just in time to see Elanee rubbing something between her palms. The wood elf's lips are moving as she chants the words to a spell, her brown eyes trained intently on the dragon advancing steadily towards Alya and Neeshka. With one final incantation, she tosses whatever was in her hands at Xarzith's feet. Alya recognises the white granite piece from earlier, but now it is glowing, as if suffused with an eerie light.

As soon as the stone lands, a thunderous rumble reverberates through the snow, as everything starts to sway and shake violently. Still a little unsteady on her feet, Alya finds herself leaning heavily against Neeshka, as they both struggle to keep their balance. With a resounding _CRACK!_, a ragged chasm opens up directly underneath Xarzith, rending the earth apart. Hissing in alarm, the dragon spreads its wings, and takes off just asthe ground she was standing on crumbles into the newly-formed abyss.

"Let's go!" Elanee urges, as she runs past them, just as another forceful tremor buckles the icy floor, creating a series of cracks all along the ground.

They have barely taken a few steps when they hear a particularly loud and portentous crackling behind them. Turning back towards the ice caves, Alya curses when she sees the towering mountain literally splitting in two. As boulder-sized chunks of ice and rock begin to tumble down, the craggy peak collapses…

As does the glacier beneath them.

The roar of the avalanche triggered by Elanee's earthquake spell drowns out the screams of the three women, as they are quickly buried and swept away by a wave of ice and snow.


	12. Chapter 11: Shades of Grey

**Chapter 11 – Shades of Grey**

How long has it been? A few hours? A day? Two? A week? How long has he been trekking aimlessly through this drab, featureless landscape? It seems like ages, yet he feels neither hunger nor fatigue. Perhaps the indistinct environment, with its lack of night and day, is clouding his sense of time. Perhaps it has not been nearly as long as he thought.

As he continues to walk towards an unknown destination, all he hears is the soft, muffled treads of his own footsteps, the tiny clouds of grey dust he kicks up the only movement in the vast wasteland.

The lack of any sensory stimulus means that putting one foot in front of the other has become a mind-numbing, unconscious effort. And, with no apparent dangers – no apparent _anything _– in sight, Bishop could let his guard down slightly, and allow his thoughts to wander.

Since he woke up in this strange place, bits of memories have been slowly returning, but like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, it still does not explain how he came to be here.

_I remember a dagger…and a lot of pain…and an angry red sky…_

_Hold on…something else was also red, wasn't it? Something deep red…no, burgundy…and…soft to the touch, like hair…_

_And I remember, standing out among all the red…a vivid green…cat's eyes…_

Most of all, he remembers a scent: deep, bittersweet and earthy, it reminds him of rosewater and cinnamon.

"Alya!" The sudden realisation of who he had been thinking of fills him with a sense of urgency, one he has not felt since arriving in this apathetic land.

Despite the fact that he is the only one ther, as far as the eye can see, Bishop looks around.

_She was there, in that red place, right before I woke up here. Did she get taken here too? _

He recalls the dagger, the excruciating pain, and his heart grows heavy with worry.

_Where is she now? Is she all right?_

"Alya!" He breaks into a run, not caring where he is going. Any straight line would do. Without a clue as to where he is or how he got here, he knows he is wasting his time. A tiny, rational voice at the back of his mind is telling him there is no way he would ever find her this way, yet he also knows that, if he doesn't do _something_, he would be overwhelmed by a terrible feeling of total helplessness.

"_ALYA!!_" His scream rings out starkly against the silence, before being swallowed by the vast emptiness of the grey landscape.

And then, right at the horizon, standing out from its drab surroundings like a heavens-sent beacon, he glimpses a splash of vibrant red.

"Alya?"

_I never thought I'd ever say this, but thank the gods!_

He begins to sprint towards the tiny dot of colour, hope swelling in his chest. As he gets closer, the red dot begins to grow, until eventually, he can make out a figure.

A _female _figure.

_With red hair._

"Alya!"


	13. Chapter 12: The Aftermath

**Chapter 12 – The Aftermath**

The snowy plains and rocky ledges of the Reghed Glacier are eerily silent and calm after the pandemonium of the earthquake, and the monstrous avalanche that followed. Piles of ice and stone – all that remain of Xarzith's towering ice fortress – lie scattered across the frozen plateau. The white dragon is nowhere to be seen, as a gentle snow begins to fall, and the wind howls mournfully across the frigid wasteland.

A lone figure moves soundlessly amongst the rubble, sniffing and pawing the ground at sporadic intervals, seemingly oblivious to the biting wind. The wolf has managed to escape the worst of the snow slide, but it has separated him from his companions. The immense torrent of ice has covered all traces of their scent, and the animal whines piteously as he tries to search for them. Karnwyr has an overwhelming desire to find them safely, particularly the red-headed one who had travelled with the Master for so long. His instincts tell him that his only hope of being reunited with the Master lies with that woman, and if she is gone, then the Master will be lost forever.

Something makes the wolf stop in his tracks. He sniffs the ground beneath him. The faintest hint of a soft, earthy scent, tinged with a trace of fear.

With a hopeful yelp, Karnwyr begins to paw at the snow, flinging up clods of ice and dirt as he digs, deeper and deeper, until, a couple of feet down, he uncovers a familiar lock of deep red hair. Gripping the tuft between his teeth, the wolf leans backwards as he yanks hard at it.

"_OW!_" Alya splutters, as her head emerges from the blanket of white. Next to her, a snow-covered figure rises out from the ground, looking for all the world like an undead yeti.

"You okay?" Elanee asks breathlessly, shaking the clumps of ice off herself.

"As far as I can tell," Alya wheezes, as she allows Karnwyr to dig up the rest of her. Rubbing her sore scalp with one hand, she pats the wolf on his head with the other. "Erm, thanks, boy," she says, as she picks a handful of her hair from the animal's mouth.

"Neeshka!" Elanee's sudden exclamation makes Alya's heart pang with worry. Desperately, she scans the featureless white landscape.

Please, Gods, no…

"Nee?" she calls tentatively, as she jumps unsteadily to her feet.

I talked her into this…

"Neeshka?" Louder now, her voice shaky, as she begins to stumble through the deep snow.

This is all my fault!

"_NEESHKAAA…!!" _she screams, her plaintive cry echoing hollowly across the frozen wastelands.

"Mm ow-fer ere…" comes a barely audible, muffled reply from beneath a mound of snow. With a surge of hope, Alya rushes over to the talking snowdrift. Ignoring the bone-numbing cold, and the fact that she had lost her gloves in the avalanche, she begins to claw away at the ice and dirt with her bare hands, until the pointed tip of a tail pokes up from the snow. It twitches about frantically, impatiently, as if to say "Get me out of here!"

"Neeshka!"

With a renewed urgency, Alya tears away at the rogue's frozen prison. She finds one leg, then the other, and with Elanee and Karnwyr's help, manages to pull the very cold tiefling out feet first.

"Oh, Nee…" Alya heaves a sigh of relief as she embraces her friend tightly. "You're alright."

Shivering uncontrollably, Neeshka appears too cold to even say anything. There is a pale blue tinge to her skin and lips, and even her spots are blue.

"We need to get her warm," Elanee says, as she rubs her own palms together. Muttering an evocation, her clasped hands begin to glow, brighter and brighter, until a flickering flame is formed. As she brings the conjured fire closer to Neeshka, Alya shrugs off her own outermost coat, and wraps it tightly around the thief's shoulders.

Through her violently chattering teeth, Neeshka finally whimpers, "C-c-can we g-g-g-go n-now?"

"Of course we can," Elanee whispers soothingly, "just as soon as you are warm enough to move." When the small flame in her hands goes out, she begins to lead Neeshka away.

"Wait…" After all the chaos and excitement of the avalanche, and the emotional turmoil of its aftermath, Alya had almost forgotten what they have come all this way for.

"The dragon's blood…Xarzith's blood…where is it?" she asks, looking around. "Oh no, how can we find it among all this rubble? We have to find it, we _must _find it! We've come all this way! How…"

Her despairing tirade is cut short when Neeshka opens her previously clenched fist, revealing a glint of glass. Nestled in her palm is the small crystal vial, unbroken, its crimson contents swirling.

"_N-n-now _c-can we go?" she asks again.

--

"That's the last time I'm ever stopping off at _that_ pigsty!" Neeshka huffs as she plonks herself down beside the newly kindled fire.

"Well, Longsaddle is not a village known for the gentlemanly types," Elanee reminds her, as she tosses another twig into the glowing flame. "And also, some of those ranchers have not seen a woman in months. The only females those guys ever meet are their cattle."

"Heh, that explains their pathetic chat-up lines!" Clearing her throat, Neeshka assumes a false baritone. "Ya know, there's more than one reason why they call us _Long_riders…" she drawls, hooking her thumbs through her belt hoops and thrusting her hips forward.

Elanee stifles a giggle as she watches the tiefling strutting around the campfire with her feet wide apart, imitating the gait of a seasoned horse rider. Then, with uncharacteristic aplomb, the druidess wraps an arm around Neeshka's shoulders. "So tell me, li'l demon girl," she intones, her own voice unnaturally deepened and suggestive, "are you feeling – _horny_ – at the moment?"

Both women burst out laughing. Bending over, they hold on to each other for support, and eventually collapse in a rolling heap of howls and guffaws. Karnwyr, who is resting beside the fire, stares at the duo quizzically, his head cocked to one side, before putting his head back down on his paws. Neeshka could have sworn she saw the wolf rolling his bright yellow eyes.

"Hey, at least the stopover wasn't all unpleasant," Neeshka says, as she fishes a small, jangling sack out of her pocket. Opening it, she reveals a stash of gold coins, along with a handful of gemstones.

Elanee gives a low whistle. "Good haul. Where'd you get it from?"

The tiefling's eyes twinkle mischievously. "Ol' Smelly Bucktooth Guy."

"Aw, that nice, charming man?" Elanee tuts with mock sympathy. "Was that before or after he asked Alya to – what was the term he used? Ahem, 'Kiss' his 'love muscle'?"

"After," Neeshka replies, giving her a naughty wink. "_And_ after she decked him for it!"

Another peal of laughter follows. Finally, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, Neeshka looks around their camp. "Where is Alya, anyway?"

Elanee's face becomes solemn.

"Meditating." She motions towards a copse of trees.

"Oh." What that means is clear to Neeshka. Her previous good spirits all but forgotten, she props her chin in her hands. "She still feeling bad about what she did?"

Elanee nods. "It was what she had to do, but I think she believes we could have gone about it differently."

Suddenly, from the dense thicket, they hear an odd _chink, chink _noise, like metal digging into earth, followed by the muffled sound of moving soil.

Neeshka glances at Elanee questioningly.

"She's planting a tree."

"What? Now? At night?" Neeshka is incredulous. "In the middle of nowhere?"

"It is her way of atoning."

The tiefling sighs, "She sure is going through a whole lot of trouble for a dead guy, and a mean, _evil _dead guy at that."

Elanee shakes her head. "No one understands why a heart chooses a certain path, or why someone would follow that path, no matter how difficult."

"Huh," Neeshka shrugs. "Well, in any case, he'd better be grateful for all this." Rummaging through her vest pocket, she produces the glass vial containing Xarzith's blood. Far from the freezing glacier and the raging white dragon, the rose-coloured liquid appears quite innocuous.

"You really think this is going to work?" she asks the wood elf.

"It is pretty far-fetched," Elanee admits. "But – for Alya's sake – we can only hope."

Neither woman says anything more. They merely sit quietly, staring into the flickering campfire, the silent night around them punctuated only by the chirping of crickets, the croaking of bullfrogs, and the solitary sound of digging.


	14. Chapter 13: A Snake's Offer

**Chapter 13 – A Snake's Offer**

"Alya!"

With a feeling of complete relief, mixed with utter disbelief that he managed to find her at all, Bishop runs towards the red-headed woman. Covering the last hundred yards or so in an all-out dash, he arrives within a few feet of her.

"Aly-" Her name is cut short. Apart from the red hair, this woman could not have been any more different from the half-elven monk. Tall, shapely and long legged, she is scantily clad in armour – plate mail spaulders, a metallic chest guard that barely contains its intended charges, and a chain mail skirt with slits down both sides, revealing her sensuous hips and thighs. Her flaming locks flow about her despite the lack of a wind, reminding him of a nest of snakes. They frame an oval face with luscious cherry lips, and eyes the colour of rubies. Strangely, there is a blue-green tinge to her smooth skin, and the sweeping ochre-red wings sprouting out from her back confirms her identity.

_An erinyes…_

"Oh, I'm sorry…" the devil says, her voice sultry and deep. "Did you mistake me for someone else?" She smiles at him, flashing her pearly white teeth, and he catches a glimpse of pointed, sharp canines. Slowly, seductively, she steps towards him, her graceful, sinuous movements reminding him of a beautiful, yet deadly, serpent. Closer and closer she stalks, until she is practically nose-to-nose with him, forcing him to gaze into her hypnotic red eyes. He detects a whiff of her hair – smoky, with a sulphurous undertone.

"So," she purrs, deliberately caressing his cheek with her breath. "What brings you here to the Grey Wastes of Hades?" Her ruby eyes twinkle mischievously as she adds, "Or need I ask?"

_Hades??_

"Aww, what's wrong?" she pouts her full lips at his confused expression. "You didn't realise you had died?"

"W-what are you playing at, demon?" Bishop demands, as he steps back from the erinyes.

The baatezu tuts gently, crossing her slender arms gracefully, the motion resembling two serpents intertwining. "Really now, if you're going to hang about here more, you really should learn your manners." She points at herself. "Devil. _De-vil_." She draws out the second word, as if teaching a child to speak. "Not _demon.._." Like a viper, she spits the word out like a curse. "We take it as an insult, you know."

All of a sudden, realisation dawns: the cold, grey landscape, the featureless grey sky, not feeling the need to eat or sleep…

_The dagger…and the pain…_

"How…who…what…?" A multitude of questions spring up his mind, one after the other, in such quick succession that he has trouble putting them into words.

"Shh…" The erinyes soothes, sounding like a hissing adder. She places a finger gently on his lips. "How you got here is no longer important. What really matters is…what are you going to do now?"

His mind is a whirlwind of emotions, unanswered questions, and incomplete memories.

Why can't I remember what happened?

The erinyes is looking at him expectantly and licking her lips. Then, like a snake sizing up its prey, she starts to circle him, unashamedly appraising him with her eyes. The tip of a red feather from her wing brushes across his face.

Bishop begins to squirm under her gaze.

_So this is how women feel when I mentally undress them…_

When she has finished her inspection of him, she turns to him quizzically.

"No religious tattoos?" she asks.

"No religion," he replies simply, gruffly.

"Ah," she gasps in mock sympathy. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

Bishop grits his teeth. "Well, _stop_ feeling sorry," he growls. "I don't need your pity."

The erinyes regards him thoughtfully. "You don't know, do you?" she whispers.

"Know what?" he snaps, tiring of her mind games.

"Come with me." She motions towards the far horizon. "There's something you should know." She starts walking – nay, _gliding, _for she moves with the utmost elegance – but looks over her shoulder when she realises Bishop is not following.

"You'll have to get there sooner or later," she says. "It's drawing you. It's been drawing you ever since you got here."

She is right, and he hates it. Perhaps it is a dead soul's innate instinct, but something has been luring him all this time in this direction.

The question is: _what _is it?

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he insists.

The erinyes laughs breathily. "Oh, of course, where are my manners? I haven't even introduced myself!" She proffers her hand. "My name's Naja." She smiles invitingly. "What's yours?" When it becomes apparent he is not going to shake her hand, nor offer his name, she shrugs.

"Well, now that we're better acquainted, shall we?"

Bishop remains silent and rooted to the spot, glaring at her suspiciously.

Naja sighs, a sultry, alluring sound. "Look, I am bound by law. I cannot harm or trick petitioners, I swear. Cross my heart." With a clawed finger, she draws an 'X', slowly, enticingly, across her exposed chest, right above her plunging cleavage.

Bishop has to keep reminding himself not to stare.

"Why would a dem-…a devil, help me?"

The erinyes grins. "Because we could help each other, silly. I'll explain it as we go." She detects the ranger's hesitation, and laughs throatily. "It's all right, handsome, I won't bite, but if you wish, you may keep your distance, though I'd much prefer you close…" Her voice drops an octave. "V_ery _close."

_Homina-homina-homina…_

Still mistrustful, Bishop is nevertheless curious. What choices could he have in death? What kind of help could the baatezu offer him?

Besides, he is still being attracted inexorably towards something.

_Plus, she is HOT…_

Reluctantly, he falls into stride alongside her, making sure to keep himself out of arm's reach. Beaming at her small victory, the erinyes begins to talk.

"We baatezu have an…agreement, with Lord Kelemvor, God of the Dead. As long as we vow never to harm, or deceive, the souls of the newly dead, we are allowed to bargain with them, offer them favours in return for joining our ranks." She eyes him again seductively.

"As promiscuous as we are, this is still the main way baatezu propagate."

Bishop considers the information. "Becoming a devil?" He sneers. "That's hardly an attractive offer."

"Not if one worshipped a deity before death," Naja explains, "and is promised salvation in the afterlife. Those souls drive a hard bargain." She turns to him. "But you, you are a Faithless. No god will be collecting your soul."

Her solemn words send an involuntary chill down Bishop's back. "So what happens to–"

Before he could finish his question, the flatness of the horizon before them is punctuated by what looks like a tall, spiralling mast. As they get closer, he realises that it is a tower, a grand, lofty tower fit for a king. The presence of such a magnificent structure, here in the middle of the wastelands, does not puzzle Bishop as much as the fact that the entire building, from what he can see, appears to be made from a clear, glassy, gleaming material.

"That's the Crystal Spire," Naja tells him. "It is where the Lord Kelemvor resides."

As they reach the top of a grey dune, one of the rare humps of soil he has encountered among all the flatness of this place, Bishop and the erinyes find themselves looking down into a shallow valley.

_And a city._

"We are here," Naja announces. "The City of Judgment."

From their vantage point, the city stretches out below them like any other, except for the fact that, like the landscape around them, everything here seems to be the same monotonous shade of grey: grey buildings, grey streets, a huge grey wall surrounding the entire city. Among all this blandness, the Crystal Spire stands out starkly, looming majestically over its drab domain.

Is this where his senses have been leading him all this while?

But…_why_?

"What is this place?" he asks his strange but beautiful companion.

"This is where all the souls of the dead converge to await their judgment."

"Judgment?"

The erinyes nods. "There are three outcomes: the most common, is that a divine servant, representing one's deity, will arrive to escort you to your final resting place; the second, for people who have committed horrible crimes in life, are judged as the False. They are the citizens you see in the City of Judgment. Some of them are sentenced to work for eternity here…or, depending on their crime, there are worse punishments."

He turns to her. "How worse?"

A sudden piercing scream punctures the still air. Bishop has no idea if the noise is coming from a man or a woman, or even a human for that matter, but the ululating cry seems to go on forever, evoking all sorts of unspeakable horrors, of physical as well as mental anguish, before finally fading in a high-pitched, bloodcurdling wail.

"Worse than even the most malicious demon can dream up."

Bishop shivers. Images of smoke and flames, blood and death, fill his mind's eye, as he relives the moment he single-handedly decimated his home village of Redfallows Watch. He sees his father, claret gushing freely from his severed jugular, and he sees himself standing over the dying man, bloody blade in hand.

_Massacring an entire village, and patricide on top of that. If those deeds put together aren't a candidate for eternal punishment, I don't know what is._

For the first time in a long, long time, Bishop feels the stirrings of a long forgotten emotion, one that sets his pulse thundering in his temples, and fills his stomach with dread.

_Fear._

Fighting to keep his voice casual so as not to appear weak, he asks, "Y-you mentioned a third outcome?"

Naja nods solemnly. "Those who never worshipped any deity in life, the Faithless," with that, she looks pointedly at Bishop. "They are entombed within the walls protecting the city, until their souls become one with the plane."

"Entombed? H-how do you mean?"

Naja stops walking. "See for yourself."

Bishop freezes. "What in the Hells…"

They are now within a dozen feet of the city walls. From here, what had looked like a plain, grey stretch of stone from afar, is now a writhing mass of flesh. Grey tinged corpses, stacked one on top of another, and crammed side by side, seem to be cemented together by some oozing green mould. Some of the bodies have become so melded together, it is impossible to tell where one person ends, and where the other begins. A misshapen foot beside a distorted face, the remains of a still twitching hand, below what could have once been somebody's torso…it is as if the souls are being absorbed into the very wall itself.

Worse of all, worse than the sight of dissolving bodies and twisted features, worse still than the terrible stench of decomposing flesh brought on by the corrosive mould, is the noise, the noise of a thousand tortured souls begging for release. They are not loud like the cries of the False, but an ever-present, eerie sound: haunting moans, unintelligible blubbering, raspy gasps for help…the lamentations of the Faithless assail Bishop's ears, until they appear almost deafening.

"Not a pretty sight, is it?" Naja's voice is barely audible amid the strangled groans and the thundering in Bishop's head. "To be imprisoned within a mass of squirming, rotting corpses, and to be eaten slowly away while your mind remains conscious, begging for the day when your soul is finally assimilated completely into the Wall of the Faithless…"

Forgetting himself in his anxiousness for self-preservation, Bishop spins around, grabbing the erinyes by the shoulders.

"I am _not _setting foot in that gods-forsaken city!" He shakes the baatezu desperately. "You said you could offer me an alternative, devil girl. Well, tell me, what is it?"

Naja admires the muscular arms gripping on to her, as if enjoying his touch. Then, she smiles triumphantly.

"I take it becoming a devil has suddenly become a much more attractive offer?"

Her smug tone snaps Bishop out of his near-blind panic. Letting go of her roughly, he eyes her with suspicion.

"It depends," he says, regaining a measure of calm. "What does it involve?"

"You want to know the full terms and conditions? Okay, here goes: it's simple. If you agree to join us, we bring you back to Baator, and introduce you to your new home."

"Trust me, I'm already well acquainted," he interrupts her, remembering his ordeal the last time he was in the Nine Hells, when the githyanki had torn that shard out from Alya's chest.

"Good, then we won't need to waste too much time with orientation." Naja continues, "Naturally, you don't look like a devil, but that's nothing a good morph spell can't fix. Now, as in any organisation, you will start off on the lowest rung in the hierarchy, a lemure, but if you prove yourself, you can advance through the ranks, maybe even become a pit fiend." The erinyes is inspecting him again, and this time she runs her talons lightly down his sculpted chest. Despite himself, and his dire situation, Bishop feels an involuntary stirring in his loins.

_Hello, somebody is still pretty lively after death…_

"Hmm…" Naja appears deep in contemplation. Caressing his well-muscled arms, she comments, "Very nice. You know, perhaps turning you into a lemure is a waste of your talent. I don't think being a blob of flesh would suit you very well."

Inwardly, Bishop is relieved he is not going to start his baatezu career as something resembling what the dog regurgitated.

"No, that won't do," After a quick deliberation, the erinyes appears to arrive at a decision. Sensually, she cups his face in her hands.

"I can pull a few strings, get you started higher up on the ladder," she offers. With a pointed finger, she lightly traces a line along his strong jaw.

"We can start you off as a spinagon instead."

Bishop grimaces, recalling one of those flying creatures he had faced when he was last in Baator: barely humanoid, covered in spikes, sharp teeth and claws…

"Don't worry," she assures him, threading a snake-like arm through his. "Some erinyes find leathery wings _very _sexy." As if confiding a secret, she whispers in his ear, brushing his lobe with her lips, "Myself included. And," she adds suggestively. "You may be surprised to hear, those spines are not much of a hindrance, in _experienced _hands…"

Summoning all his willpower to not take the erinyes then and there, and mentally berating himself for his weakness – _Men, always falling for the oldest trick in the book _- Bishop considers the information the devil has just imparted.

"So, I join your ranks and fight for you, and you turn me into a mutant pincushion with wings," he sums up. He eyes her sceptically. "What's in it for me?"

With serpentine grace, Naja dances around him, turning his head so that he is again staring at the dreaded Wall of the Faithless.

"You mean, apart from escaping that terrible fate?" She frowns. "You're hardly in a position to make demands, mortal."

"How would I know that becoming a devil minion isn't a worse fate?" he challenges. "I'm not going to spend eternity as cannon fodder."

"Ah, but the resourceful ones survive to grow ever more powerful," she explains. "And remember, you become immortal."

When he still appears unconvinced, she sighs, frustrated. "What, you'd rather become part of that Wall?"

"No," he replies. "I'd rather you make me a better deal."

"Very well," Naja says, her red eyes gleaming. "Here's my offer: you become one of us, starting higher up on the ladder than most. Plus…" She presses her lithe frame against his hard body. Again, he smells smoke and brimstone.

"You can ask whatever you want of me."

Bishop cocks an eyebrow. "Anything?"

"Anything," she whispers erotically, her hot breath on his neck filling his mind – and his pants – with naughty thoughts.

When was the last time a woman made an advance on him? _Without_ expecting to be paid in gold?

Struggling to maintain his concentration despite his _very _apparent excitement, he contemplates his options.

_Eternal punishment if judged to be a False…slowly rotting away in a wall if judged to be a Faithless…or to risk becoming a devil and see where it takes me…_

Naja's promise echoes temptingly:

"_You can ask whatever you want of me."_

The erinyes is eyeing him expectantly.

"Well?" She slithers an arm around his broad shoulders, and her other hand toys with his pectorals. She looks like a cobra that is about to land its prey.

"What'll it be?"


	15. Chapter 14: Balance Through Chaos

**Chapter 14 – Balance Through Chaos **

A brisk breeze sweeps through the mountain pass, tousling Alya's auburn hair. She tosses her head to throw a stray lock out of her eyes. It has been a while since her last cut. If she does not get one soon, she will have to start tying her hair up.

She guides her horse along a particularly narrow ledge, being careful not to get too close to the edge. The High Forest stretches out beneath them, its emerald swathes interrupted only by the shimmering, crystalline serpent that is the Heartblood River. Further towards the horizon, she could just make out the edge of the forest, and catch a glimpse of where the Heartblood joins with the Delimbiyr River.

Hazarding a quick glance behind her, she checks to make sure that both Elanee and Neeshka have traversed the tiny ridge safely. The wood elf is riding a majestic snow-white stallion, and the tiefling is on a spirited young colt the colour of midnight.

_Say what you will of those longriders, they do rear the most magnificent horses. We wouldn't have gotten here so quickly without the two of them._ Her dun-coloured pony snorts, almost jealously, and Alya pats her mane.

"You're wonderful too, girl," she assures it.

Leaning back a bit in her saddle, Alya looks up at the evening sky: a deep cobalt blue, dotted by purple clouds. A silvery white moon is just visible, glowing subtly, waiting for the sun to set before revealing its true brilliance. Close to being full, it is a round, ovoid shape.

Like an egg…

Alya sighs, the guilt of holding a helpless, unhatched wyrmling hostage for a ransom weighing heavily again on her conscience. She rolls her right shoulder, all of a sudden feeling a burning, itching sensation on her scapula, where she has a small, non-descript tattoo, almost always hidden underneath her monk's robes. It is the outline of a waterfall rushing into a tranquil pool.

Releasing one hand from the harness, Alya reaches behind herself to scratch her shoulder blade.

_It's as if Eldath herself is displeased._

Although she mainly follows the teachings of the Way now, it is a deity-less philosophy, and more a way of life rather than a religion. Before Daeghun had sent her to train under Q'ian Zang, who had bestowed upon her the wisdoms of the Eastern doctrine, she had been a follower of Eldath, the Green Goddess.

Growing up as an orphaned half-caste, in a small, close-minded village, her childhood had not been particularly pleasant. Teased and ignored by the other children – apart from Amie and Bevil, of course – she found solace and acceptance in a secluded glade not far from Daeghun's house. With its shallow, rocky brook and soft green grass, it was always there, waiting for her, ever inviting, never judging. The grove never cared about her half-elven heritage, never jeered at her pointy ears and wild red hair, never lectured her on presentation and personal hygiene every time she got a little muddy. She would spend all day in the glen, reading storybooks on an old rotting tree stump, feeding the deer and squirrels that frequented the clearing, and whenever she was upset, she would climb up the ancient oak tree, and hide from the world amid its rich foliage.

For a small, lonely child, Eldath seemed the perfect deity: quiet, enigmatic, but with a deep, unbreakable resolve. It was Eldath who gave her restraint, to turn the other cheek whenever the village children called her cruel names; it was Eldath who gave her insight, to love her foster father despite his apparent resentment of her; it was Eldath who taught her pacifism, to recognise the fruitlessness of trying to fight back against the Mossfeld brothers.

As a child, Alya had wanted nothing more than to become a druid, living alone in the wilderness, yet forever at one with nature.

That was until Eldath had forsaken her.

In the very glade she dedicated to the goddess.

Yet, even after that, and even now that she has found the Way, Alya has never completely abandoned Eldath. True, with her current lifestyle, practising passive non-violence is pretty much impossible, but she still plants a seed in the goddess' name occasionally, and she still believes in using her fighting abilities only in defence.

"_Swear to take no thinking life except in direst need." _

Is that not one of Eldath's teachings? And yet, she was threatening to kill an unborn hatchling, surely the most defenceless of nature's creations. She does not even know if the precious parcel had survived the earthquake and the ensuing avalanche.

_Gods, what in Hells have I done?_

With that one single act, she has served herself a double whammy – she has most surely incited the wrath of one of the most powerful and terrifying dragons around, and Xarzith will probably be hunting her for the rest of her days.

She has probably also damned her own soul for eternity.

_I don't think any amount of meditating or tree planting can redeem myself this time…_

A sharp bark from Karnwyr, who was scouting ahead, jars Alya back into the present. She turns to Elanee and Neeshka.

"We're here."

Before her companions could even register what she had so hurriedly blurted out, Alya has dismounted, and is rushing headlong through the passages of Q'ian Zang's cave, with the wolf close at her heels. She stops in the room where Bishop lies, to find the ranger's body exactly as she had left him, on some furs on the hard stone floor. She exhales inwardly with relief that he has not deteriorated as she had feared.

"You have returned, my child." In her haste to see Bishop, Alya had not noticed her mentor sitting beside his workbench, waiting patiently. "And, I sense you were successful in your quest."

"_Sifu_!" She drops to her knees at her master's feet. Behind her, she hears footsteps as Elanee and Neeshka finally catch up with her.

"Woah…" She hears the tiefling mutter.

Jumping up, Alya quickly introduces the women to her teacher. "Elanee, Neeshka, this is my mentor, Master Q'ian Zang."

"Wow, how old is he?" Neeshka murmurs, eliciting a sharp elbow from the wood elf.

"The antidote?" Q'ian Zang inquires, getting straight down to business.

"Right here," Neeshka chirps, as she hands him the tiny crystal vial containing the deep red liquid. The old man examines the contents by holding the glass up to the light, and shaking it lightly. Seemingly satisfied, he places the bottle on his worktop and shuffles over to Bishop's still form. Shutting his eyes, the old man places a wrinkled hand on the ranger's forehead, and utters a few arcane words. A brilliant flash of light radiates from between his gnarled fingers, filling the entire room, before disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared.

"What was that?" Neeshka asks, her voice low with awe.

"I have just lifted the Temporal Stasis spell on his body," explains the hermit patiently. "The antidote will not work with the spell still in effect."

With that, he walks slowly back to his workbench, the tip of his cane clacking on the stone floor. Reaching into a drawer, he pulls out a long, thin, hollow glass tube with a pointed end. Then, after lighting a candle, he places the sharp end of the crystal straw into the flame for a few seconds, twirling the equipment between his thumb and forefinger. With is other hand, he uncorks the phial of red liquid, and inserts the heated tip of the rod into the dragon's blood. Sucking gently on the rounded end, he draws up a dose of the scarlet fluid before re-corking the container.

"Hold up his arm," he instructs no one in particular. Alya dutifully steps forward, crouches down beside Bishop's body, and picks up his left arm. It feels heavy and cool to the touch, but still surprisingly supple.

_Thank the Gods for Temporal Stasis spells…_

Her master kneels down by her side, and turns Bishop's arm, until he exposes the vein on the inside of the ranger's elbow. Placing the sharpened point of his pipette over the blood vessel, he pierces the skin. Then, twirling the needle, he burrows it deeper into the arm.

Alya cringes as she watches the procedure, imagining the feel of having a sharp pin pushed slowly into one's flesh, and then staying there, a foreign object inside one's own body.

_Give me a swift cut from a blade anytime…_

Her mentor is tapping the area where the tube has been inserted. With an imperceptible nod to himself, he again places his lips over the blunt end of the crystal straw. As he blows into it gently, Alya can see the white dragon's blood within disappearing slowly into Bishop's arm.

Suddenly, the ranger's body gives an almighty buck, nearly throwing Alya off his arm. She hears Neeshka's squeak of shock behind her, and Q'ian Zang, with a speed no man his age – nor any man _a fraction _ofhis age – could possess, has already removed the pipette from Bishop's arm, and stepped back out of range.

As the body thrashes again, Alya is consumed with a mixture of fear, uncertainty, and hope.

_What's going on? Is he alive? Is that why he's doing this? Is he in pain? Can I stop it?_

Unsure of what else to do, she hangs on for dear life, at the same time trying to pin the flailing ranger down in case he hurts himself. Karnwyr is somewhere in the room, barking and whining in distress.

Then she realises that her master is speaking to her.

"Let go, let him be." Even at such a frenzied moment, his tone is quiet, even, carrying no hint of urgency or panic, just calm assurance, like a deeply rooted rock in the face of a hurricane.

Reluctantly, Alya releases the struggling ranger, and steps back. As Karnwyr continues to yelp at the sight of his master tossing around like a rag doll, the monk looks away, fighting back the welling tears.

No pity…Bishop hates that…Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the bucking and thrashing eases off, each spasm less severe than the last, until, with one last tremor, the body is still once more. The wolf is on the ranger at once, licking his pallid face and snuffling like a puppy.

"Is…is he…?" Alya peeks tentatively over Elanee's shoulder. At some point during all that, she had somehow ended up in the druidess' arms, cowering like a little girl.

Q'ian Zang must have detected the hopefulness in her unfinished question. "He is still not living, child. I have merely neutralised the poison in his body."

"B-but…all that…_moving_??" Neeshka butts in uneasily, visibly shaken by the spectacle.

"Merely a reaction. It was the conflicts between the blood of the red dragon and that of the white dragon. Remember, Alya?" The old man raises one white eyebrow, as the opportunity to reinforce what he taught before presents itself.

"It is through chaos that one achieves balance," Alya whispers, echoing her _sifu_'s past words, and her mentor nods approvingly. She recalls her master's tricks with the red and blue potions, how the mixture bubbled and spat violently before becoming one calm, homogenous purple.

_But I didn't expect this to be a scaled-up version of his little demonstration!_

Her heart still hammering from the fear and excitement, she asks, "Did…did he, um…_feel_…any of that?"

The old master shakes his bald head, and Alya relaxes slightly.

"So his body is now…_habitable_…again?" She is starting to feel like the slow student in a group of pupils, the one who asks all the basic, silly questions with the obvious answers.

With no sign of exasperation, her mentor nods patiently. "Now we just need to bring his soul back – before it is lost forever."

"How long do we have?" _Another dumb question._

The old man shrugs. "Who can say? Some souls wander for days before Judgment, others, weeks."

"Days?" interrupts Neeshka unthinkingly. "So we may already be way too late? _Ow! _Hey!" She rubs her sore ribs from another one of Elanee's sharp nudges.

"Ah, young half-demon, 'may' is a word of chance, and as long as there is chance, it is still worth a gamble." Q'ian Zang turns to Alya meaningfully, his words specifically aimed at allaying her worries.

"So what do we do now?" The young monk asks anxiously.

"Patience, child." The ancient hermit holds up a leathery hand. "First, we must put another Temporal Stasis spell on the body. Then, you must rest."

"I don't need a rest," Alya protests, as the old man makes his way back to his workbench. "I'm fine."

Her mentor stops rummaging through his belongings long enough to fix the half-elf with a gentle, searching look, as he considers her drawn face and bleary eyes.

_Damn, I feel like a little kid again, _she thinks. She hates that penetrating once-over; it always seems like her master could see right through her with that look.

"You must rest," he repeats simply, and although his tone remains soft, it carries a note of finality that bodes no argument. Then, as if offering a compromise, he adds, "Just for a night. Then I shall explain your next task." He picks up the flask of crushed gemstones, inspects the remaining pinch of sparkling dust, and frowns lightly.

"I do not have enough jewel powder."

"What?! Shite!" Alya cries, jumping up from where she has just sat down and started relaxing. Without another Temporal Stasis spell, Bishop's body is not going to last long. And there is nowhere within a day's ride that they could find precious gems.

Pulling at her red hair, Alya groans, "Why didn't you tell me this before? Gave me a shopping list or something? What are we going to do now?"

"Ahem," Neeshka taps the half-elf's shoulder with her tail to catch her attention. She holds in her hand a plump, heavy coin purse. As it is opened, Alya is greeted by glimmers of red, green, blue and gold.

The tiefling shows Q'ian Zang the jewels. "Will these do?" she asks.

The old man searches in the bag and removes a ruby, a large emerald, and two sapphires. "My thanks, demon child," he tells the rogue sincerely, as he places them in an enchanted mortar. Neeshka stares longingly at the gemstones as they are first shattered, then crushed into a fine, glittering powder.

"Neeshka…" Alya begins. Knowing the tiefling, it must have been really hard for her to part with those stolen gems.

"Hey, don't thank me," the rogue says nonchalantly. "Thank Ol' Smelly Bucktooth Guy."

Alya grins. "Oh, that nice, charming man? I almost feel bad for knocking him out now." She looks towards her mentor, all of a sudden feeling chagrined.

"Forgive me, _sifu_. I spoke rashly," she bows, and begins to apologise, but is stopped by the way the old man is sifting through the freshly ground jewels, his white brow furrowed.

_Something's wrong…_

The hermit turns back to the tiefling. "I do not suppose you have a diamond with you by any chance, do you?"

Neeshka shakes her head emphatically, then looks at Alya.

"What?" she says. "I really don't have one, serious! You can search me!"

Q'ian Zang's next words sound ominous in Alya's ears.

"We need a diamond. Without it, the spell ingredients remain incomplete."


	16. Chapter 15: The Decision

**Chapter 15 – The Decision**

Every touch, every caress, sends shivers up and down his spine. The heady smell of burnt sulphur, slightly acrid but not unpleasant, coupled with the come-hither look in those ruby red eyes, is almost too much to bear. And when she whispers breathily into his ear, it nearly sends him crashing over the edge. His manhood strains painfully against his breeches, like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

_I can ask anything I want of her…_

The tip of a wing brushes casually pass the inside of his thigh, and Bishop gasps, no longer caring that his knees feel weak, no longer caring that he has lost control.

_This is what I want…_

"Oh, Alya..." he moans hoarsely.

He catches himself as soon as he uttered her name. Naja, her bright red eyes wide and puzzled, stops what she is doing, and stares back at him. Bishop blinks once. Twice. Three times.

_I'm going mad._

The erinyes has disappeared. In her place, in exactly the same spot, in exactly the same quizzical pose Naja had struck, is a heart shaped face framed by soft burgundy hair. Instead of bluish skin, he sees a tanned complexion, pink with health. The devil's full red lips are replaced by natural pink ones. In place of the elegant, slender nose is a little button nose that he would consider cute.

And the eyes…

Somebody has swapped the fiery rubies for emeralds of the lushest green. Slanted ever so slightly at the corners, they stare back at him with wide-eyed confusion and innocence.

_Cat's eyes…_

"Are you alright?" In the space of that one short sentence, the erinyes' deep, sexy voice transforms into one with a lighter, tinkling, almost bell-like quality.

With a strangled cry, Bishop staggers backwards. He catches his heel on something, stumbles, and lands rather ungracefully on his behind. The brief vision has vanished. Naja is back where she was supposed to be, still looking utterly perplexed.

Scrabbling to his feet, he begins to back away from the erinyes.

"W-wait, where are you going?" Naja demands. "What about my offer?"

Still spooked by what he saw, Bishop merely shakes his head dumbly. Then, with one final glance over his shoulder, he runs towards the gates of the City of Judgment.


	17. Chapter 16: Of Vermilion and Ink

**Chapter 16 – Of Vermilion and Ink**

"Nee, are you _sure_ you don't have a diamond stashed away somewhere? Perhaps embedded in a necklace, or something you've forgotten about?" Elanee probes the tiefling urgently, aware of the seriousness of the situation. No diamond means no Temporal Stasis spell, and no spell means that all they have strove to achieve so far would have been for naught.

Neeshka shakes her head emphatically. "I'm one hundred percent _positive_," she insists. "If I had one, trust me, I'd have had it out by now." She turns to the elderly hermit.

"Isn't there somewhere nearby we can like, steal – or, if we're really desperate, buy – a diamond? A town? A travelling merchant? A…a dwarven mine?"

Q'ian Zang sifts through the ground essences of the other gemstones thoughtfully, as if trying to find the answers within the twinkling powder.

"This place is remote. There is no settlement within a day's ride, nor do merchants frequent the area. As for a mine, I do not know of any nearby. The elves of the Forest may, but they themselves are difficult to seek out."

He glances over at the supine form of the dead ranger.

"Without a stasis spell, we will have to try and maintain the body's condition by herbal means. But that will only work for a few days, if that."

Throughout the anxious discussion, Alya had been standing in a corner, leaning against the stone wall, brooding silently. Now, she steps out from the shadows, her mouth set in a grim line.

"I have a diamond," she whispers softly.

There is a hushed silence in the cave.

"What?" Neeshka asks, not sure she heard right the first time.

"I have a diamond," the monk repeats flatly, but slightly louder. She pulls at the woven leather thong she wears around her neck. There, hanging from the cord, normally hidden from view under her robes, is an intricate gold ring.

Inlaid with a sparkling diamond.

Elanee and Neeshka recognise the ring immediately.

"Oh, no…nonononono…" the tiefling murmurs. "You can't –" She sees the steely determination in Alya's eyes.

"You _won't_…" she murmurs, scandalised. Elanee stares quietly, a hand over her mouth.

As if to prove she would, Alya walks purposefully over to her mentor's worktop, picks up a small pair of pliers, and proceeds to personally pry the stone out. When she is done, she hands the extracted white diamond – flawless and clear, and sculpted in the shape of a sparkling heart – to Q'ian Zang. The old man admires the exquisite gem and its elegant workmanship, then eyes the half-elf quizzically.

"I'm sure," she states affirmatively, answering his silent question. Then, betraying a trace of reluctance, she chews on her lower lip, but says,

"Do it."

Without a word, her mentor places the brilliant diamond into his mortar, and Alya gazes longingly at it, as the pestle begins to break the gem into millions of tiny pieces. The sound of the stone being crushed, echoes the crumbling of something in Alya's heart.

"Wow," Neeshka remarks with wonder. "You actually did it."

Alya shrugs, but says nothing.

"That ring was the only thing left linking you to-"

"I know it was!" the monk snaps, and instantly regrets being so sharp with her friend. She sighs and continues less heatedly. "Look, what's done is done, okay? We needed a diamond. I had a diamond. There was no other choice, sentimental value or no."

The sound of grinding stops, a sign that the diamond is now no more than a pile of fine, crystalline dust. Leaving the old man to his work, she turns away, tenderly fingering the now stone-less ring.

--

"Y'know," the tiefling sighs, sitting back contentedly. "I can get used to this: having supper at the top of the world." She gazes out at the sleeping forest, and takes in the cool mountain air.

"I don't think I've ever seen so many stars," she remarks in awe.

"The city lights do tend to obscure the heavens a bit," Elanee agrees. As the wood elf helps Q'ian Zang clear up, Neeshka sits with her legs dangling off the edge of the cliff, admiring the lofty view. Being so far up the mountain, not even the sounds of the forest can be discerned. All they can hear is a low, mournful howl, as a wolf – probably Karnwyr, who had wandered off straight after eating his hunk of meat – bays at the full, corn silk moon. The sky is a deep, velvety blue, clear and cloudless, studded with tiny pinpricks of twinkling crystals. By moonlight, the snaking Heartblood resembles a river of stars, as it reflects the heavens in its depths.

"This is absolutely _gorgeous_," Neeshka gushes. "Where's Alya? She loves all this nature-y stuff. She's got to see this."

"I think she's popped into the cave," Elanee tells her absentmindedly, as she busies herself with making the horses comfortable for the night.

"Indoors?" the tiefling exclaims. "On a lovely night like this? I won't allow it!" With a cheeky smile, she leaps up from her precarious perch, and makes her way into the old hermit's cave. Quaint paper lanterns, hung at equal intervals along the walls, cast their flickering light to illuminate the stone passages. Navigating the network of tunnels, she finds the room she suspected Alya to be in.

Sure enough, the monk is in her mentor's study, sitting on the floor beside Bishop's now safely preserved body. She is hugging her knees to her chest, and watching the dead man intently. Neeshka sees her reaching out a hand tentatively towards the ranger's cheek…

Then their eyes meet, and, realising she is not alone, Alya quickly retracts her hand as if scalded. The tiefling has a grin so wide, it threatens to split her face open.

"Damn you stealthy thieves," the half-elf curses, blushing at being caught in the act.

"Busted!" Neeshka teases, savouring her friend's embarrassment. Plonking down besides the monk, she gives Bishop's topless body a quick once-over.

"Rawr…" she growls appreciatively. "I'll never say it in front of him if he was alive, but he's _hot_." She laughs at the look of shock on Alya's face.

"Oh, don't worry," she ribs. "I'm not going to even try competing! He's only ever had eyes for you." As she watches the monk's cheeks turn an even brighter shade of pink, she adds with a shrug, "Besides, he's not my type; way too angsty, and all that emotional baggage!"

Alya smirks at the rogue's apt description. "So he isn't Mr Congeniality," she agrees, before finally confiding, "but there's something about him, something I can't quite put a finger on…I mean, he'll hate me for saying this, but…I sense a sort of…_vulnerability_, in him. Something happened to him, a long time ago, that's made him so…bitter, but deep down…" She recalls the dream she had, the horribly realistic one right before he died. Could it have been anything more than a dream? Would Bishop, who values self-preservation above all else, really sacrifice his own life for another?

"Deep down," she continues, "I think he actually _wants_ to change, he just…doesn't know how."

She glances sheepishly at Neeshka, suddenly aware that she had been rambling on like a love struck teenager.

"You are _so_ in love!" the tiefling squeals. Too tired to argue, Alya does not even bother to protest, but merely looks away, blushing fiercely.

As if deciding to cut the half-elf some slack, Neeshka stops tormenting her, but fixes her with a knowing, affectionate glance.

"You know, Alya," she begins wistfully. "You've changed…somehow. And I don't mean in a bad way. You used to be so…so _lawful_. By the book. It's good to see you loosen up a little."

The monk laughs mirthlessly. "Taking helpless eggs for ransom hardly constitutes a change for the better."

Neeshka sighs. "You're still bummed about that, aren't you?" They sit in silence beside the dead ranger for a while. Then, the tiefling speaks again.

"The way I see it? There's never just a right way and a wrong way to do things. I think there are thousands of ways to do just one thing, each with its own measure of…I dunno, rightness and wrongness. We just have to pick the best way that suits our situation at that time." Her hand finds Alya's, and the tiefling gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"Who knows?" she adds. "Maybe, somewhere down the line, you'll find that your way was more right than wrong."

Alya quietly considers the tiefling's uncharacteristically profound words. As if realising she has been way too serious for her own liking, Neeshka nudges her lightly, changing the subject.

"Y'know, I hate to admit this, but I think that, if we manage to bring him back to life, and if he doesn't end up betraying you again and killing you, he could be good for you."

Alya smiles. "Actually," she observes, "I find that _you've_ been good for _Ela_. With all the time you two have been spending together, you're sort of rubbing off on her."

Neeshka shrugs modestly. "It was nothing. And I'm starting to really enjoy her company, now that she's lightened up. I just had to pull that stiff rod out from up her a-"

"_As _I suspected," comes a voice from the entryway as Elanee enters the room. Hands on her hips, she tells the tiefling, "When you didn't come back out, I knew it was because you two got distracted by girl talk."

Neeshka sits bolt upright, looking suitably contrite, searching for any clues that could signify the wood elf had overheard them talking about her. When it seems clear that she had not, the rogue relaxes visibly.

"So," Elanee asks curiously, joining them on the floor. "What were you two gossiping about?"

"Oh, nothing," Neeshka lies. "Just talking about Alya and Bishop."

"Nee!" Alya starts to protest, but the tiefling is already yammering on.

"I said he might be good for her – if he doesn't kill her first, that is, and she thinks she may be good for him, too. What do you think, Ela?"

By that time, a mortified Alya has shrunken deep into a recess in the wall.

"Oh sure," she mutters, her cheeks crimson yet again. "Announce our private conversation to the world, why not."

The wood elf laughs at the monk's apparent discomfort, then grows contemplative. "Hmm, I honestly don't know," she muses. "Not that I am questioning your cause at all, Alya, but for a man so set in his ways, I'm not sure if it's possible for him to change."

"I'm hoping that death does things to a person," Neeshka chimes in. "Make him see the light, or whatever. But if you ask me," she sniffs disdainfully. "Once an asshole, always an asshole."

"Not necessarily."

All three women turn at the sound of Q'ian Zang's voice. For an old man with a cane, he moves remarkably quietly. As he shambles past them, Neeshka, chagrined at swearing openly in front of the elderly master, whispers to Alya, "Psst…do you think he knows what an asshole is?"

But the hermit has already begun speaking again.

"Be near vermilion, and you are dyed red; be near ink, and you are stained black," he states cryptically, as he totters over to his workbench, where a glass flask containing clear liquid has been left over a flame. Steam rises out from the mouth of the alembic, as the fluid within begins to bubble. He motions the puzzled girls over before opening a small wooden chest. It is filled with an odd, brown mixture of what looks like dried leaves and twigs, probably some sort of medicinal herb. As he gathers a pinch of it and puts it into a small bowl, he begins his explanation, choosing the unfamiliar words in Common carefully.

"One will take the colour and trait of one's company." He blows out the candle heating the flask. "This…Bishop, could well have behaved offensively before, but if he travels with Alya long enough, he may start learning from her kindness and purity."

For the umpteenth time that night, Alya feels her cheeks reddening from the veiled praise.

"But Q'ian Zang," Neeshka asks. "If Bishop has no redeeming quality, doesn't that mean that Alya will pick up like, _bad_ traits from him?"

The old man carefully picks up the hot flask with a piece of cloth. "Perhaps," he replies. "Or perhaps she could inherit his resourcefulness. A man who chooses to live alone must be reasonably resourceful and skilled to survive on his own."

_And he should know, _Alya thinks. _Sifu _has probably been living here as a recluse for the past century.

"So…you are saying there is good in everyone?" the tiefling asks, a little incredulous.

The master smiles enigmatically. "Ah, what is a good man but a bad man's teacher?" he asks. "And what is a bad man but a good man's job?" He proceeds to pour the boiling liquid into the small bowl containing the unidentified particles.

"Watch," he instructs simply. "The dry, brittle leaves, when near the water, begins to take on the qualities of water: it unfurls, and becomes soft and supple. And the water, when it touches the leaves, takes on their colour." The three women watch in awe as the clear liquid transforms slowly before their eyes, and the dried herbs begin to float and swirl gently in the solution, like seaweed caught in an ocean current. The hot, steaming brew looks arcane, almost magical.

"So you see," the hermit concludes, raising up the bowl. "We will always learn from one another. Whether you learn good or bad…well, who is to say what is good, and what is bad? Such descriptions only exist as a means of judgment, of comparison. Without good, there will be no evil, and without evil, there is no good. So if you choose not to judge, you will not see the bad."

He moves to walk away, but Neeshka enquires again, "Um…just curious, what is that concoction you just made?"

To everyone's horror, the old man blows gently on the formidable liquid, and takes a small sip.

"Tea."


	18. Chapter 17: Rekindled Interest

**Chapter 17 – Rekindled Interest**

Naja steps out of the portal onto brick red soil.

"You return alone?"

As she expected, the tall, robed figure is waiting for her. Although its back is turned to her, it still casts a commanding profile against the blood red sky.

She bows low.

"Forgive me, my lord. I tried my best. But he still would not come."

"That is most unfortunate," says the mysterious form, its voice deep, resonant. It speaks of an eternity of wisdom. "I had seen potential in him."

"I am sorry I disappointed you," the erinyes apologises again.

"It's probably just as well." Its back still turned, it shrugs a broad shoulder. "He may have been a bit too…chaotic…for our needs."

A spell of silence follows.

"Tell me," the dark figure asks again. "Just out of…curiosity, what was his reason for refusing our offer?"

Naja shakes her head. "I – I do not know, my lord. It was strange. He appeared extremely receptive. Manipulating him was easy. I actually thought we had him. But then…" the erinyes recalls the strange events that followed. "Then, all of a sudden, he stares at me, and looks as if as if he's seen a balor. And he just…ran off."

There is another short silence, as her superior considers her story.

"That _is_ unusual," it concedes finally. "Did he say anything at all before he left?"

"No, my lord," The erinyes pauses, recollecting her thoughts. "Although," she offers, "he did say something I didn't understand, right before he got spooked." She tries to remember the unfamiliar word.

"Ali…Ail…Alya…?"

There is a stunned moment whereby the imposing figure freezes completely. Then, slowly, deliberately, he finally turns to face the lesser baatezu. He has blue-grey skin, and hair a dark shade of slate. His face is lined, suggesting ages of experience, and yet some would still consider his features handsome. His eyes, like Naja's, are flame red, but unlike the erinyes' youthful sparkle, his seem to gleam with a quiet, more profound intellect.

"Lord Mephasm." Naja asks, "You know what it means?"

The pit fiend nods slowly, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

"How very interesting," he muses, "that in death, the mortal still pines for his woman, even after all he's been through."

"A woman, my lord?" The erinyes makes a disgusted face. "He mistook me for a _human _female?"

"Half-human, half-elven, to be precise," Mephasm corrects her. Scratching his chin with a talon, he appears deep in thought.

"So," he contemplates, speaking mostly to himself. "This mortal's emotional attachment to the female is so strong, not only was he willing to die for her, he is still thinking of her, even in the afterlife…how astounding…"

Moving over to a bench made from rust coloured stone, the pit fiend dismisses the erinyes.

"Go now," he orders brusquely, as he begins making preparations. "I think I will pay a visit to this…Alya.

"It seems my curiosity has once again been piqued."


	19. Chapter 18: City of Judgment, City of De

**Chapter 18 – City of Judgment, City of Death**

Bishop does not stop running until he reaches the gates of the City of Judgment. Catching his breath, hands on his knees, he turns back to the crest of the hill where, just moments before, he very nearly sold his soul to a devil. Naja, looking every bit the beautiful, sexy, and dangerous erinyes that she is, glares back at him with a mixture of disappointment, confusion, and defeat. Summoning a shimmering portal, she steps through it, and in a flash, both the baatezu and the magical arch has disappeared.

No sign of Alya anywhere…

_This place must be making me go mad! Did I just _reject_ a sexual advance from a drop-dead gorgeous wench?_

Still perplexed by his own reaction, and feeling more than a little sexually frustrated, he stares up at the foreboding wrought-iron gates, flanked by two heavily armoured and well-armed guards, the entrance into the city of the dead.

"Hey, watch it!" he snarls when someone bumps into him from behind. Whirling around, he is about to deck the unfortunate clumsy pedestrian, when he notices the vacant look in the man's eyes. Staggering like a zombie, the man, his face tinged with the pallor of death, stares forward, muttering to himself, as he heads directly towards the closed gates. Just as Bishop thinks the man will be colliding head-on with the iron structure, the immense doors slides open on their own, letting the man through, before magically slamming shut again with a metallic clang. He sees another soul, a gaunt woman, dark circles around her eyes standing out starkly against her pale skin, pass through in the same way.

_Jeez, do _I _look that bad?_

Half-wondering if it would admit one as irredeemable as himself, Bishop approaches the entrance, tentatively and curiously.

_Um…open sesame?_

When he gets within a couple of feet of the huge gates, there is a squeaky sound of metal against metal as, like a great pair of iron curtains, they part.

And the cries of the tortured, previously muted behind the enchanted gates, assail his senses with a vengeance.

Screams of horror, shrieks of pain, and wails of unimaginable suffering bombard his hearing, forcing him to cover his ears against the onslaught. The metallic scent of blood, and the acrid odour of singed hair and burning flesh, assault his nostrils, making his eyes water. And yet, in spite of the atrocious sounds and smells, there are people milling about almost serenely in the city streets, seemingly oblivious to the plaintive cries for help.

_What manner of hell is this??_

Dumbstruck, he hovers at the threshold of the open gates, ready to turn tail and run. Who cares if there is nowhere else to go? Anything would be better than setting foot in that forsaken hellhole…

One of the armoured guards eyes Bishop suspiciously.

"Hey, you," he calls out gruffly. "Get a move on, before you let them demons in."

Bishop stares at him dumbly, refusing to move. The guard, a half-orc judging by his imposing build, snub nose and protruding canines, growls.

"I said, move yer butt, yer scrawny morsel!" When Bishop still remains motionless, the half-orc begins to advance threateningly on the ranger.

"Wait, Grukk!" A small figure interposes himself between Bishop and the hulking guard, at risk of getting squashed underfoot by the half-orc's huge feet.

"Allow me to try and persuade him," the little man says, and surprisingly, the guard, after huffing and fixing Bishop with a fierce glare, lumbers back to his post.

"You must forgive Grukk," his rescuer apologises on the half-orc's behalf. "He has a short temper, but he's really a nice guy." On closer inspection, Bishop realises that his short, squat saviour is a gnome, and an odd-looking one at that, even by gnome standards: bald, clean-shaven head, dressed in a long black robe, with a somewhat macabre gold pendant around his neck, depicting a skeletal arm holding up a set of scales.

_Oh no…_Bishop groans involuntarily. _I hope he's not related to Grobnar…_

But he needs not worry; this rock gnome cannot be any more different from the often-chatty, sometimes-infuriating, frequently bouncy and ever-irritating bard. Solemn and soft-spoken, he nods politely in greeting.

"My name is Doden," he says quietly. "I'm a servant of Lord Kelemvor, god of the dead and Judge of the Damned. Might I persuade you to come with me?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you, midget," the ranger growls. "Especially not in _there_."

"Please, sir," Doden persists, his tone still calm and even. "It would be safer for you, and for everyone else, if you stepped away from the Supplicants' Gate, and entered the city."

"Safe? Pah!" Bishop spits derisively. "Safe in that slaughterhouse? That overgrown torture chamber?" The half-orc guard is watching the ranger suspiciously again, poised to quickly, and no doubt violently, silence any dissent as soon as the order is given.

Turning his back to the gates, Bishop spreads his arms, indicating the grey expanse before them.

"This whole place is a deserted _dump_!" he shouts. "What could possibly be more dangerous out here than in that freaking hellhole?"

As if answering his question, an ominous rumbling begins to spread through the grey earth beneath his feet. Amid the tremors, a series of portals suddenly spring up in the horizon, from which pour forth all manners of fiends imaginable: succubi, hezrous, as well as an entire menagerie of flying, slithering, globular, horned and animal-like monsters Bishop could not even begin to identify. Bellowing, screeching, chittering, howling, their combined war cry is a deafening clatter of chaos, as the first wave advances, descending upon the city.

Cursing loudly, the half-orc guard sounds the alarm, blowing on a curved horn before drawing his vicious double-headed war axe, ready for the onslaught. From seemingly out of nowhere, an army of defenders materialise, fanning out in a protective formation along the outside of the city wall.

"Quickly, this way." Tugging Bishop's arm urgently, Doden motions towards the still-open gate. The swarm of demons, rolling towards them like a diabolical tidal wave, is more than enough encouragement for the ranger. Hot on the gnome's heels, he rushes through the enormous city gates, which promptly rolls shut behind them, muffling the noise of battle.

"What in Hells was that?" he pants, the sound of clashing steel and beastly roars, although not as deafening, still clear and audible through the solid metal gates.

"A tanar'ri raid," the little gnome explains. "Don't worry, it happens every once in a while. The guards are well trained to repel them. Besides, the demons never aim to get past the city walls."

"But…why?" He could not even begin to fathom what the demons would want with a place like this.

"Souls," Doden states simply, sombrely. "They steal the souls of the dead, taking them by force, enslaving them into their service."

"They're here for souls?" He is interrupted by a high-pitched shriek from the other side of the fortification. "But we're all in here. And you say they never get past the city wa-"

The horrible realisation sinks in. His gaze flicks to the solid, shifting mass that he had avoided looking at since realising what it is.

The Wall of the Faithless.

In spite of himself, he looks around for a better vantage point. The drab grey building beside them, with its stack of easily scalable crates piled up against one side. Driven by his morbid curiosity, he climbs onto the roof, which is just about level with the height of the Wall. Straining to peer over the quivering barrier of flesh, he cranes his neck, and stands up on tiptoes.

As Doden had said, the city guards are well prepared for dealing with the demons, driving the fiendish hordes back without too much trouble. But in the unavoidable chaos and confusion, some of the tanar'ri manage to make off with a soul or two, torn straight out from the Wall itself. As Bishop watches, a hulking hezrou claws viciously at the fleshy rampart, ripping out a screaming soul, green mould flailing. Cackling, the demon retreats towards the nearest open portal, with its grim prize tucked under one arm.

Having seen enough, Bishop climbs back down, dropping the last six feet or so and landing easily on his feet.

"So gangs of demons regularly convene to _deface _your city walls…" He almost laughs at his own unintended pun, picturing a tanar'ri extracting a soul by tugging at its cheeks. "And your god, master of this realm, _allows _it?"

"It is…tolerated," Doden replies. "As long as it does not become too frequent. When it does, we occasionally retaliate by sending troops to the Abyss."

Bishop is incredulous that the fiends could manage to get away with being so bold. At least the baatezu's recruitment campaign is legitimate, and offers the unfortunate soul a _choice_.

Speaking of choices, his has become pretty limited after turning that erinyes down. Ah well, might have been a bum deal anyway. But to have mistaken the devil for Alya…gods, did that monk put some sort of enchantment on him or something? Where and how is she, anyway?

Not for the first time since arriving in Hades, Bishop wonders if she is all right.

The tanar'ri raid seems to have ended, and the silence left behind by the shrieking demons are soon filled again with the hapless cries of tortured souls.

"Come." Doden begins walking. "I will show you where you need to go."

"Woah, hang on!" Bishop resists. "You failed to tell me _where _we're going." He surveys his surroundings warily. The piteous wails of the eternally tormented issue from every building, as if each house in the city is its own chamber of horrors.

"I would have thought you'd want to leave this rather grim part of the city for the cheerier areas," the gnome says, glancing over his shoulder.

Bishop sneers. "There's a _nice _area in this rathole?"

Doden nods. "This is where the False, who have committed grave crimes in life, are punished for eternity. But naturally, pious followers of Lord Kelemvor live and work within the city as well. Such servants, like myself, reside in the immediate area around the Crystal Spire. The really noble ones earn the right to reside in little niches of paradise, such as the Singing City, or the Pax Cloisters. These parts are way over at the other end of the City of Judgment, providing their inhabitants with well-earned privacy and peace in the afterlife."

"Humph," Bishop grunts. "If you ask me, placing the Houses of Horrors right at the city gates is not very good town planning. Talk about deterring visitors."

As they walk through the twisted, narrow lanes, their footsteps padding in time to the harrowing chorus of agonised screams coming from all around them, Bishop tries to keep his eyes slightly ahead and on the ground. Yet, from the tiny, lit windows of some houses, he invariably catches glimpses of unspeakable punishment: a bloody whip, a blood-splattered wall, white caustic fumes, and many strange implements he could not recognise. Neither does Bishop want to dwell on how they are used to inflict pain and suffering.

The cobblestone street before them widens, and the buildings on both sides, as well as the eerie howls of purgatory, drop off. They step into a large open square, at the end of which sits the imposing Crystal Spire. Dozens of other newly departed souls are milling about the sparse plaza aimlessly.

Bishop tilts his head back, admiring the stunning architecture of the crystalline palace. Most of the tower appears to be carved from one single, immense crystal. The walls appear thick and sturdy, yet fluid, as the lucid mineral twists and curls gracefully towards the tip of the gleaming spire. Although the citadel walls are transparent, the privacy of the inhabitants within are cleverly preserved by a cunning play of light: each wall is etched with millions of minuscule facets, each of them performing a dual role of mirroring light from outside the spire, and distorting the images from within. A few parts of the tower flicker with a cascade of iridescent colours, suggesting someone has a candle burning inside.

The ranger tries to imagine how splendid the Crystal Spire would look sparkling in bright sunshine.

_Shame there's no sun here in Hades…_

"This is where you will wait." Doden says abruptly, before turning to walk away.

"W-wait? Wait for what?"

Without looking back, the rock gnome replies.

"Judgment."


	20. Chapter 19: A Midnight Visit

**Chapter 19 – A Midnight Visit **

Exhausted as she is, Alya's rest that night is fitful, her dreams disturbing. In one, she stands before a massive wall, which appears to be made out of masses of flesh, skin, hair and body parts. The grotesque barrier quivers and shakes, as if the tortured souls within are struggling to escape. A gruesome symphony of tormented wails and moans fill the air.

She sees Bishop, standing with his back to the wall, leaning against it nonchalantly.

It is only when she gets closer does she realise her mistake; strips of muscle and gristle extending from the wall have encircled themselves around the ranger's limbs and torso. Even as he fights to free himself, he is being drawn into the depths of the hellish mound.

"Bishop!" she hears herself cry, as she rushes to his side. Grabbing his arm, she tries to pull him free, but his gory bonds are strong.

"_Bishop!_"

Locked in a grisly tug-of-war she is rapidly losing, she watches as a disembodied arm winds itself around the ranger's neck, and drags him deeper into the writhing wall. As she loses her grip on his hand, his face freezes in a silent scream of horror, before he disappears, internalised within the Wall of the Faithless.

With a gasp, Alya sits bolt upright to find herself in a dark cave, dimly illuminated by a paper lantern hanging on a bracket from the wall. Beside her, Elanee and Neeshka lie sleeping, and in front of her, in the half-light, she can just make out a rickety old bookcase, groaning under the weight of scores of ancient tomes and dusty scrolls.

She lets out a breath. She is in her master's study.

_Only a dream…_

"Hello, Alya."

From the inky darkness of a stone passage, a pair of sinister red eyes glows eerily.

_I must still be dreaming…_

As the intruder steps out from the shadows, a gaunt, blue, _familiar_ face slowly materialises around the fiery eyes.

"Uh…girls…" she prods Elanee's still form beside her, but the elf does not stir.

The pit fiend is now directly in front of her, standing at her feet, gazing down at her with a look of mild amusement.

She shakes the druidess.

"Elanee! Neeshka!"

With an incoherent mumble, the wood elf merely turns over, snoring lightly. Neither woman wakes up.

_Please let this be a dream…_

Fully aware of what happened the last time she had a dream featuring the baatezu, Alya narrows her eyes, glaring at him warily.

"What do you want, Mephasm?"

The devil feigns an expression of mock offence. "What, you're not even going to offer me a seat? I'd have thought you mortals had at least _some _manners."

With the pit fiend still looming dominantly over her, she makes to stand up, to lessen his advantage over her, but her muscles are uncooperative. As if holding her in a hypnotic trance, Mephasm's eyes burn with a diabolical flame, and she can do nothing but stare, helplessly transfixed, at those gleaming red points of light.

"Oh, don't bother getting up," the baatezu says amiably. "I won't be staying long. It's just that, I was passing through, and I happen to notice something most unusual…"

His gaze flicks quickly to the adjoining room, breaking the spellbinding eye contact for a split second.

"A body, a _dead _body, one so long expired that it should have already succumbed to the ravages of nature, still unspoilt, still _pristine_. And, even more curious, the poison that burned within, the one which _mainly _contributed to his death…" He places emphasis on the word 'mainly', and grins meaningfully, as if sharing with her a private secret. "This poison appears to have vanished. The body seems to have been cleansed, purified, and preserved. But why?"

The devil is thoroughly enjoying himself now, as he theatrically taps his chin with a clawed finger.

"How curious," he muses, "that it almost appears as if this empty shell is being prepared for…re-habitation."

Mephasm frowns in apparent confusion.

"Now, why would anyone want to do that? The soul has long left the body. Why try so hard to bring it back? It's going against the course of nature. Plus," and he eyes her almost accusingly.

"What if the soul doesn't _want _to return?"

If Alya could move, she would be squirming under the devil's searching gaze, as it bends over her, scrutinising her as one would a pig in a stall.

Finally, Mephasm straightens back to his full height.

"Agh," he chides himself. "Who am I to question the workings of the primitive mortal heart?" With that, he glances at her conciliatorily. "For it is the heart, and not the brain, that is calling the shots at the moment, is it not?"

He shrugs his powerful shoulders. "Well," he begins magnanimously. "Seeing as I still feel deeply indebted to you for releasing me from the warlock's bondage, I am happy to assist you in your peculiar little quest." As if mentally going through the terms of his proposal, he chews thoughtfully on a long, sharp nail. Then, a blue-grey eyebrow shoots up conspiratorially.

"But mind you, I will require a favour in return."

The pit fiend leans over, talons stretched out towards her. Alya shuts her eyes…

And feels something small and hard being pressed into her palm.

Her eyelids fluttering open gingerly, she peers down at her open hand. Resting in its centre is a curved, black nail, tapering to a vicious point on one end.

"I will take my leave now," He gives a low, graceful bow, "and leave you to consider my offer. When you have arrived at a decision, summon me by burning the nail and intoning my name." Still bowed at the waist, he looks up at her with a twisted smile.

"I look forward to hearing from you."

Alya glances down at the devil's claw in mild disgust - _Eww, he was chewing on that – _and when she looks back up, Mephasm was gone. Still propped up in her sleeping bag, Elanee and Neeshka still oblivious to everything that had occurred, she wonders if it had all been another weird dream.

But the sharpened nail, still nestled in the palm of her hand, tells her otherwise.


	21. Chapter 20: Judgment

**Chapter 20 – Judgment**

_How much longer must I wait?_

Anxious and impatient, Bishop paces the length of the square for perhaps the hundredth time, growling like a caged animal. At this rate, he will soon be wearing a furrow into the ground. The pale, vacant expressions on his fellow petitioners' faces are not helping, either.

_Fools_, he thinks to himself. _It's as if they don't seem to care what could happen to them, as if this cold, dull environment is sapping them of their emotions._

In fact, that may well be the truth. As much as he hates to admit it, _he_ has been feeling progressively apathetic himself.

As a means of passing the time, Bishop had initially tried, again, to recall the circumstances surrounding his own death. As before, his memory reached no further than glimpses of a red sky and red earth, the glint of a sharp blade, and the presence of the half-elven monk. He found he was finding it difficult to be _bothered_ to remember any more.

_This place is doing this to me. I need to get out of here!_

"You have come!"

Suddenly, one of the zombie-like petitioners appears to snap out of his sluggish trance. His skin is the colour and texture of arid earth, pocked and cracked by years of hardship and exposure to the sun. Coupled with his calloused and muddy hands, he was most probably a peasant farmer in life. Stumbling in his haste, he drops to his knees before a white-haired old woman dressed in a simple brown robe. She walks with the aid of a wooden stick, and she wears a striking pendant: a ruby encrusted rose in full bloom, set against a gold wreath of ripe grain.

"The Earthmother sent you, didn't she?" the dead man is asking eagerly. "Are you going to take me to the House of Nature?"

The old lady smiles benevolently. "Chauntea, the Great Mother, recognises your devotion to her in life, and invites you to join her in eternal harvest." With that, she takes the farmer gently by the hand, and leads him away, no doubt to salvation, and a cushy afterlife.

While the day – or night, or whatever – wears on, Bishop watches as, one by one, the other petitioners in the common are received by the representatives of their respective deities, and escorted away, until he alone remains in the drab and deserted marketplace.

It is a gut wrenching feeling, knowing that no one will be coming for him.

Then, without warning, the great doors to the Crystal Spire swing open, bathing the square with a dim, eerie glow. A tall figure steps forward, the misty light from within the palace bathing him in a haunting aura.

Despite himself, Bishop stares transfixed at the imposing form: clad entirely in black from head to foot, a shock of pure white hair stands out starkly from beneath his dark headdress. Powerfully built, the god of death wears a silver mask engraved with arcane markings. From behind it, a pair of bright, yet pupil-less eyes, studies the ranger intently.

When Kelemvor speaks, his voice is deep and commanding.

"You are the one they call Bishop?"

Even in the presence of a greater deity, the ranger cannot help himself.

"What's it to you?"

"Previously Dante Fletcher," the Judge of the Damned continues, ignoring the man's insolence, "of Redfallows Watch?"

Bishop winces at the sound of his original name. It has been years since he last heard it. Not since Garrick's raid on his home village, when the duergar had killed not just his mother, but his hopes and dreams…

And his spirit.

"Tell me, _Bishop_," Kelemvor deliberately emphasises his adopted name. "Why do you call yourself that?"

_I didn't. It was that son-of-a-whore dwarf midget who gave me the name. After he killed a man over a game of chess. I'm just glad he didn't decide on Queen or Pawn…_

The god's empty eyes regard him searchingly.

"Why have you not kept your last name? Is it because you have denounced your family?"

Squirming under the Judge's sightless gaze, Bishop averts his eyes.

The god appears to pause in contemplation.

"Aidric Fletcher was a good man." It is not a comment, but a statement.

"My father was a _cowardly _man," the ranger shoots back abruptly, heatedly. "Just like all the bastards in that village!"

Kelemvor's unfaltering stare appears to burn into his soul.

"Is that why you killed them?" There is no accusation in the question.

"Th-they were weak!" he shouts, as if that fact justified his actions. "They couldn't even save one of their own! They _deserved_ to die!"

"They were _afraid_," the Judge intones calmly. "And fear is not a sin. _You _have been afraid, have you not? Even now, are you not afraid of your fate in the afterlife?"

Bishop steps back, as if the extra distance would lessen the intensity of the god's soul-searing gaze, but Kelemvor, mercifully, looks briefly away, as he appears to summon someone.

"Jergal."

A shorter, yet no less intimidating figure, pops out from behind the Judge. He holds a large, shallow basin containing a liquid of some form. Placing the dish before the Judge, the demigod sprinkles some unidentifiable dust into the solution, before stepping back, unfurling a long vellum scroll and producing a feathered quill.

All of a sudden, the mixture begins to bubble and spit. Then, a wide, flat sheet of mist materialises above the bowl, and remains suspended in air like a clear, fluid curtain. As Bishop watches in awe, images begin to form on the shifting screen, taking on colour, substance, and movement.

He sees a desolate, rocky landscape, with red earth and a bloody sky. Even as further details begin to emerge, the ranger realises, very quickly, what he is looking at.

_I'm watching my own death._

He sees himself on his knees, doubled over on the rusty dirt, clutching at his right collarbone. Alya, her burgundy hair tossed wildly around her face, stands a distance away.

And between them, a pit fiend hovers above a bottomless chasm, speaking casually about how the poison is affecting Bishop's body.

_Poison…Garrick…_

Slowly, his memories begin to fall into place, as the devil summons a portal to the Temporal Plane, to a parallel existence where his Pa and Ma are still alive, and where Redfallows Watch stands intact, untouched by the flames Bishop had set himself.

And then there is Calyx, sultry as ever, enfolding him in a passionate kiss, her pewter eyes pleading with him to join them in this alternate paradise.

He hears the pit fiend talking, offering him a second chance, an opportunity to relive his wretched existence the way he had always wanted, a life with his parents and Calyx in his home village, spending the rest of his days in peace.

No Garrick, no poison…

And no Alya.

He sees the curved dagger appear in his hands. Calyx's dagger, with its jewelled hilt, the same one she had stabbed him with, all those years ago.

"Kill her." Mephasm's words send a chill down his back even now.

Bishop watches himself shaking his head, battling with indecision, looking longingly from the half-elven monk, to the inviting scene of tranquillity through the open portal. He grimaces as the Bishop in the vision cries out, the poison racking his body, and all at once he remembers the descending haze of pain, the fire rushing through his veins, twisting his torso with unbearable agony. The baatezu incites him, telling him how he could end it all, this terrible suffering.

When he sees himself lunge, he nearly cries out. Anxiously, he watches with rapt attention, as the fight unfolds before him: his clumsy attacks, knife slashing wildly; her neat evasions, but lack of any counterattack.

"Fight me!" Bishop roars with frustration, before diving blindly at her again – and losing his footing. As the ranger observes himself slipping off the edge of the cliff, he wonders, _Is that how I died? _He remembers the sensation of utter release, as he felt himself falling into the void.

But then Alya grabs him from behind, pulling him away from the brink of the abyss. Her green eyes concerned, she asks if he is all right. The ranger seizes that opportunity to strike again. This time, he catches her arm, drawing a thin trail of blood.

"No…" Bishop the petitioner gasps, horrified. _I didn't kill her, did I? I couldn't have!_

_Why can't I remember??_

What he does recall is the instant rush of relief, a slight dulling of pain, as soon as he had made that cut. It was a tiny respite, but one that held untold promises.

He just had to hold up his end of the bargain.

Almost fearing what he would witness next, he finds himself rooting _against_ the Bishop in the illusion, urging him to stop hurting her. The ranger has paused his assault, and appears confused, and that meddling baatezu is rambling on again:

"_Blood must be shed for freedom."_

Understanding dawns on the tortured man's face. His jaw set in grim determination, he advances again on the half-elf, grabbing her roughly, trapping her arms to her sides. Holding her tightly, pressing her into his own body, Bishop pulls her in for one final, hungry kiss.

Then there is a sickening sound of metal sinking into flesh.

"_ALYA!!_" dead Bishop screams, falling to his knees, wracked with guilt, before he realises that, as the two bodies parted, the dagger protrudes not from the monk's chest, but the ranger's.

His_ own _chest_._

The vision shimmers, fades, then evaporates into nothingness. Kelemvor, one hand held to his chin thoughtfully, is once again studying Bishop with those eerie eyes.

Bishop is still unable to get the final image out of his mind. _I actually did that? _He wonders in disbelief. _Wow…you stupid, lovesick idiot…_

But he has no time to contemplate the emotional implications behind his final act as a living person.

"I have seen enough," the god of death is saying.

"It is time for me to pass Judgment."


	22. Chapter 21: The Longest Journey

**Chapter 21 – The Longest Journey**

"You _can't _be serious!" Neeshka exclaims, staring at the monk incredulously. "Dealing with a _devil_??"

"I really don't think that's wise," agrees Elanee.

"Hey, hey," Alya holds up her hands in defence. "It's not like we have any other choice here." She turns to her mentor. "Do we, _sifu_?"

Her mentor is sitting cross-legged on a pile of furs, his wizened hands clasped serenely in his lap, his white eyebrows and beard glowing orange in the firelight.

"There are only three ways I know of that one can access the Fugue Plane," he says. "One, through death; two, as a divine servant, whose role is to collect the souls of a deity's followers; and three, as this devil suggests, through temporary portals _via _the Nine Hells, or the Abyss."

"There you have it," Alya shrugs, vindicated. "Death is certainly not an option; after all, we don't want a one-way ticket. And I doubt any of us are divine agent material."

"I still don't like it," the tiefling huffs, her arms crossed. "Just thinking about that pit fiend makes my skin crawl." She shudders for effect.

"You must beware when bargaining with devils, child," the old man warns. "For there are always hidden daggers in their offers."

"You know, there is another way," Neeshka pipes up all of a sudden. "I remember hearing from someone that, if you can cast Astral Projection on yourself, your soul can leave your body and enter the Astral Plane. From there, you can pretty much travel to whichever plane you like." The rogue beams, pleased with herself.

"Of course," she adds as an afterthought. "When we do find a way into the Fugue Plane from there, we'll have to somehow get our _physical _bodies there too. I'm not sure how we could do that. Oh, and when our souls are floating around the Astral Plane, we trail this long silver cord behind us, connecting our soul to our body. I hear the githyanki enjoy cutting these cords, so that souls are trapped in the Astral Plane forever…" Neeshka's sentence trails off, before she admits, deflated, "Ok, _not_ such a good idea…"

A long moment of silence passes, and when no new suggestions are forthcoming, Alya asks her master, "So what do you think, _sifu_?"

The hermit appears in deep thought, as he chews over the implications. Finally, he replies.

"Once on a tiger's back, it is hard to alight."

Alya can feel her exasperation building. Now is not the time for riddles.

"What does that mean?" she demands. "That it's hard to get out of an infernal pact? That…that I've become too possessed by all this and can't break my obsession? _What?"_

Her mentor looks up at her calmly.

"Both."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she breathes deeply, forcing herself to calm down, to think clearly and rationally. Once again, she glances towards Bishop's body. Despite his pale and wasted look, he seems much more relaxed than she has ever seen him; the careworn lines on his face have been erased, and there is no sign of the perpetual scowl that he always wore.

In fact, could that be the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his lips?

In death, he looks to be more at peace than he has ever been in life.

_Why am I feeling selfish for wanting to bring him back?_

She remembers the strange dream, the one when the ranger had stabbed himself with that ornamental dagger. Was it a truly selfless act, or in some way, did he do it to free himself from all the torment of this life? Does she really want to go through all the trouble, to try and bring him back to a world he may not even _want_ to return to? Assuming, of course, that she even succeeds?

_Perhaps _sifu _is right…perhaps we should let sleeping dragons lie…_

But then she recalls her nightmare, and the thought of Bishop's soul, slowly ad painfully assimilated into the Wall of the Faithless, makes her blood run cold.

_Assuming that what _sifu _said about the afterlife is true, even if he is at peace now, he certainly won't be once his soul undergoes Judgment…_

Her old master is looking at her, his gaze kindly, yet steady, searching. Biting her lip, Alya glances down to avert his gaze, only to curse herself inwardly when she finds that her hand had somehow found Bishop's, and is squeezing it softly.

"I've got a foolish question," she begins.

Q'ian Zang smiles patiently.

"He who asks is a fool for five minutes," he assures her. "But he who does _not_ ask, remains a fool forever."

"Ok. Supposing we finally do get to the Grey Wastes," she postulates. "What then? What do we do when we get there? We can't just grab his soul and make off with it, can we?"

Alya pauses, almost afraid to put words to her greatest worry, her greatest fear ever since she first embarked on this unlikely quest.

"And what if he's already been Judged? What if…" She struggles to keep her tone even. "What if he's already _in _the Wall of the Faithless?

"What if we're already too late?"

To her surprise, the old man appears to be chuckling to himself.

"W-what's so funny?" Neeshka asks, wondering if it's a sign of senility.

"All these questions," The hermit chortles. "What if this? What if that? What if you fail?"

Brown eyes twinkling, he smiles at Alya enigmatically.

"What if…you _succeed_?"

The half-elf sighs. "That's the problem, isn't it?" She fingers Mephasm's claw, tracing its sharp point along her palm. "The chances of success is…is next to nothing! We're talking about defying the laws of the gods here!"

"Ah," Q'ian Zang holds up a gnarled index finger. "But a lone termite may destroy an entire dam."

"Not if the dam's made of stone!" she protests dejectedly.

"You may surprise yourself," the master insists. "Think about water. Nothing else in nature is as soft and yielding, yet it can dissolve the hardest and most impassable rock-"

Alya rolls her eyes at the old proverb.

"Is that your answer to everything?" she groans. Adopting a mock-mystical accent, she intones, "Be like water…" before stopping herself, as she notices her mentor's eyebrows shooting up quizzically. She had forgotten that where the old man comes from, sarcasm is an unfamiliar concept.

"Forgive me, _sifu_," she apologises, head bowed low, chastened. "I was being disrespectful."

For a moment, Q'ian Zang remains silent, and Alya fears she may have really offended her master.

But then she feels his leathery hands on her shoulders, as he motions for her to rise.

"It has been a very long journey for you, hasn't it?" the elderly teacher asks tenderly.

All at once, with that simple question, something inside her breaks under the strain of her burden. Something within snaps under all the pressures and stresses, all the questions and uncertainties she has been putting herself through. Like an overflowing dam, as hard as she tries, the half-elf just could not keep the tears from coming. Unable to trust her voice, she merely nods wordlessly.

"It is always the longest journey, the journey inward," her master explains sympathetically. "Yet it is a journey everyone must embark on, sooner or later."

The old man smiles gently, then, in an almost fatherly way, he wipes at a tear tracking its course down her cheek.

"But remember this: you can only go halfway into the darkest forest; then you are coming out the other side."

Sniffling, Alya asks hopefully, "So…_am_ I halfway through yet?"

Q'ian Zang's expression turns dour.

"It depends on what the devil has in mind for a 'favour'."

"Well, guess there's only one way to find out…"

As Elanee and Neeshka are still reeling from the cryptic argument they just witnessed, Alya tosses the pit fiend's nail into the roaring campfire, and begins invoking Mephasm's name.


	23. Chapter 22: Verdict

**Chapter 22 - Verdict**

Kelemvor's sightless eyes bore into Bishop's skull like twin augurs. In the sombre silence of the deserted square, the only sound that can be heard is the frantic scratching of Jergal's quill on paper, as he busily records the details of the ranger's death for posterity.

"While it is true that the circumstances surrounding your youth were unfortunate," the god of death decrees, "They do not excuse the crimes you have committed. Yet, your actions leading up to your death are uncharacteristically noble, even selfless. It seems you have, towards the end of your life, finally learned to care for someone other than yourself."

Bishop shifts uncomfortably under the Judge's watchful eyes.

"While your recent unselfishness may well absolve you of your many transgressions," the Lord of the Dead continues, "the fact remains that you are still without a deity. And that, I'm afraid, is an irredeemable sin."

The scraping sound ceases as Jergal stops writing. Pen poised above his scroll, he waits, ready to document the verdict. The atmospheric tension is maddeningly palpable; a blade could have sliced through the suspense hanging in the air.

Drawing himself to his full height, the Judge of the Damned proclaims:

"Bishop, formerly Dante Fletcher of Redfallows Watch, I hereby sentence you to eternal imprisonment within the Wall of the Faithless."

"No…" Bishop protests, even as Jergal makes his final notes, and signs off with a flourish, sealing the archer's fate in a scrawl of ink. With a snap of his bony fingers, the death lord's seneschal summons two of his minions, who promptly seize the ranger by both arms.

"No! You can't do this to me!" Bishop yells, kicking and struggling, but Kelemvor, his duty done, has already turned away, retreating into his crystal keep, his scribe close at his heels. The clear doors slam shut behind them with an air of ominous finality.

As the soldiers drag him through the city streets, Bishop thrashes wildly, but the two brutes are incredibly strong.

"Let go of me!" he demands, twisting his body in an effort to free himself.

Why did he stay in this accursed city?He should have known there could only have been one of two outcomes. Why didn't he escape when he had the chance? What was he expecting, redemption?

As they draw nearer to the wailing Wall of the Faithless, Bishop knows, with grim certainty, that all the gods have indeed forsaken him.

Just as he had forsaken them all his life.

The guards push his back into the soft, yielding wall, and he hears a sickening squelch, as his body sinks deep into the barrier. He recoils at the touch of the warm, slimy mush. The smell of rot and mould is putrid and overpowering, the stench of thousands of decaying bodies.

"You can't leave me here!" he shouts desperately at the soldiers, who have stepped back from him, keeping their distance from the revolting wall. His pleading voice is thin and reedy. Gone is his trademark nonchalance, his detached composure. What remains is just a primordial survival instinct, a deep, primal fear.

_Something_ is oozing down his chest. He sees a snotty green trail creeping along his torso, winding itself around him, and squeezing tight, constricting him as a python would a helpless rat. He tries to scream, but another length of the viscous mould has coiled itself round his neck, choking him, so that all he could get out is a garbled croak. Bit by bit, he feels himself being dragged further and further into the Wall, his flailing limbs cemented into place, as he slowly becomes part of the macabre structure.

As the rancid mixture of flesh and mould covers his eyes and fills his mouth, his final cry for help is no more than a muffled howl, as the Wall of the Faithless claims its latest soul.


	24. Chapter 23: Into the Abyss

**Chapter 23 – Into the Abyss**

Silence.

The darkness is complete, the emptiness absolute. Alone in this blessed oblivion, Alya unburdens her mind. Concentrating only on her breathing, she imagines her troubles, her worries, leaving her body with every long exhalation, and floating away into the fathomless void. Every idea, every emotion, every musing, escapes her, disappearing into nothingness, until she is but an empty shell.

And now, with her mind free of any cluttering thoughts, she surrenders to the ebbs and flows of the Way.

_We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want. We hammer wood for a house, but it is the inner space that makes it livable. We work with being, but non-being is what we use._

She allows the emptiness within her to expand, to grow, until she is at one with the vacuum around her.

_When there are no laws, there are no criminals; when there is no want, there is no greed; when there is nothing, then nothing will trouble you._

She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs up with sweet mountain air. Vague shapes begin to form in her hollow universe, abstract thoughts that begin to occupy the emptiness inside. She does not fight this invasion of random notions, but rather embraces it. Like the pieces of a jigsaw, they magically fall into place. With no obstructive, destructive thoughts in the way, her ideas are able to organise themselves in a much neater and orderly manner.

With one final exhalation, Alya opens her eyes, and she is greeted by a magnificent dawn. The sun has barely risen, peeking tentatively over the eastern horizon, sending its first feelers of light out into the open sky, which is a deep greyish-purple, save for the orange aura around the rising orb.

Her mentor is sitting beside her on the cliff shelf, watching her approvingly.

"You have cleared your mind?" he asks her.

Alya jumps to her feet and stretches her legs. Her mind, her body, even her heart, all feel much lighter after her deep meditation, as if she has purged herself of all negative energy and cumbersome thoughts.

"To become whole, you must be partial," she states, with profound understanding. "To get things straight, let yourself be crooked."

Her green eyes are steely with determination.

"To be given everything, you must give everything up."

The old master gives her a satisfied nod. "You are ready," he proclaims, a hint of pride in his aged voice. He hands her a simple stone amulet, hung on a leather thong, which she inspects curiously. It appears to be made from a single round, flat pebble, polished to a smooth finish, with a hole drilled near the top where the string is threaded through. It looks to be completely unremarkable, save for the rune carved into its very centre, a vertical line that switches back sharply to the right, creating an acute angle with the first line. The symbol resembles half an arrowhead, pointed upwards. As she holds the pendant in her palm, she could feel a faint thrumming from the inscribed symbol.

"It is a _laguz_ rune," explains her _sifu_. "It resembles the element of water – a vital part of life, but a constant danger in the form of floods and storms, just as our own journeys through life are inevitable, and not without risks." As he says this, his wise eyes meet hers meaningfully.

"_Laguz_ symbolises fluidity, changeability, and sometimes, a lack of control," he continues. "Only by attuning yourself to creation, will your life truly flow as it is meant to. Emotional balance comes from harmony with everything around you."

Alya notices the latent humming within the stone again.

"What exactly does the rune do?" she asks her _sifu_.

The old man smiles mysteriously, an almost youthful twinkle in his ancient eyes. "That is for _you _to find out, in due course."

She does not persist, knowing that, in his mystical moods, there will be no further unencrypted information coming from the hermit. With a nod of thanks, Alya ties the amulet around her neck, feeling the cool stone as it rests against her chest.

"And you may need this." Held reverently in the elder's deeply lined hands, laid neatly across his wrinkled palms, is a pair of identical sticks, both a foot long. Made entirely from translucent green jade, and polished to a satin finish, they are each intricately engraved, with a long, serpentine dragon on one, and a graceful, flowing phoenix on the other. When Alya picks up the sticks, she finds that they are joined at one end by a metal chain.

_The Liang Yi…_

"_S-sifu…_" This is the Liang Yi, or the Unity of Opposites, Master Q'ian Zang's signature nunchakus, his most prized treasure. "I can't accept this. I am not worthy…"

Her mentor places a gnarled hand on her shoulder.

"I am but an old man," he sighs. "I no longer have use for martial tools. You, on the other hand, you will be able to utilise this weapon the way it is destined to be used."

"Oh, _sifu_, thank you." Alya embraces her Q'ian Zang, and the old man, unused to such displays of affection, stands stock still, blinking widely, before finally patting her gently on the back.

"I am honoured."

With her chest expanded with pride, Alya pulls away, and gazes in awe at the jade nunchucks. The twin shafts feel both light and solid in her hands. The cool, hard stone gleams ethereally, as it catches the rays of the morning sun.

To think that something so beautiful, could be a lethal weapon in the right hands…

She gives the chucks a practice twirl, swapping it from one hand to the other, getting used to the feel of the twin rods. The weapon whirls so quickly, it is but a green blur, and the effect is almost hypnotic, as she whirls it around her head, behind her back, under her arm.

With one final spin, Alya tosses Liang Yi into the air, and with a flourish, catches the still twisting weapon as it comes back down.

"Ok," she says, as she tucks the precious chucks into her belt. She turns to her companions, and the pit fiend waiting patiently behind her. "It's a deal. Let's do it."

--

The portal spits them out onto rocky, crumbly ground the colour of fired brick. The landscape is jagged, harsh and volcanic, littered with craggy rock formations, bubbling pits of lava, and bottomless chasms. The sky is the colour of ochre, streaked with grey wisps of acrid, sulphurous smoke. An oppressive red sun hangs ominously, bathing the landscape with sweltering heat and an infernal light. The air is hot and suffocating, heavy with the acerbic stench of heated brimstone. Karnwyr yelps and snorts, pawing at his snout as the stinging odour hurts his sensitive nose.

"And here we are," Mephasm announces, sounding like a tour guide. "Welcome to the Abyss.

"Ugh!" Neeshka covers her own nose, making a face. "Charming place."

The pit fiend is suddenly all business.

"Now, you need to travel northwest in that direction," he points a talon towards the rust-coloured horizon. "Until you reach the River Styx. Cross it, then keep going till you see the Grand Abyss." His ruby eyes gleams. "You can't miss it."

"And that's where we'll find the fortress," Alya finishes for him.

"Very good, little mortal," the devil smiles condescendingly. "You pay good attention. But remember, this is a _discreet_ operation." He hands the building plans to Neeshka, who will obviously be the one scouting ahead once they get there. The tiefling takes the blueprints gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, all the while keeping as much distance from herself and the baatezu as possible. "Infiltrate, recover and escape. Try not to draw too much attention, and return to me here when you have completed the mission.

"Oh," he adds, almost as an afterthought, "I don't suggest you take your time. The atmosphere can be a bit…disagreeable, to mere mortals."

"Get in quietly, grab the prisoner, get the hells out, _quick time_, and meet you back here," Alya summarises. "Got it." She had already been briefed before she agreed to all this, and the blue devil had provided them with some interesting background information: their target, another pit fiend by the name of Corin, is the Spymaster for the baatezu, and a member of the Dark Eight, the top generals in the devils' eternal Blood War against the tanar'ri. He had been abducted by the demons, betrayed by one of his own spies. Without him, the baatezu's entire network of moles within the tanar'ri ranks is immobilised.

It is said that the true identities of the Dark Eight are never revealed to lesser baatezu. Any deaths within the ranks are quickly covered up, and new blood is secretly chosen to replace them, gaining both the prestigious job title, and the name of their predecessor. Whenever this happens, no one knows about it. This ensures that the baatezu's eight great generals appear unbeatable - legendary, god-like heroes who can never be defeated in battle, whose cause is well worth dying for.

Also, the apparent invincibility of the members of the Dark Eight would discourage any overly ambitious and obsessive pit fiend from attempting to become a Dark Eight by underhanded means.

Alya does not question how Mephasm could be privy to such top-secret information, nor his involvement in all this. From her past experiences with the pit fiend, she would not be surprised if he were one of the more powerful members of baatezu society.

Once he is satisfied that the mortals know where they are going, and what the devil are doing, he summons another portal.

"I wish you well, little ones." He gives them a mock salute, as he disappears through the magic arch. "The Nine Hells are counting on you."

"That's _very_ reassuring," Alya remarks sarcastically, but the devil is gone. With a shrug, she looks out across the barren desert, and towards the direction of their intended destination. In the distance ahead of them, the landscape is dotted with tall outcrops of rock, piercing the horizon like so many jagged teeth. Atop these toothed monoliths perch scores of winged creatures. Black, and grey, some of them are gliding through the air in slow, predatory circles.

"Ugh, I hate vultures," the monk comments, as she begins walking.

"Um…those are pretty _big _vultures…" Elanee offers warily, as they draw nearer the feathered swarms.

"Those aren't vultures," Neeshka holds out her hand to stop the rest from advancing any further.

"They're vrocks."

Now that they are closer, the flying beasts can be observed at pretty much their full size: indeed, they have the bald head of a vulture, but the creatures are eight feet tall with twelve foot wing spans. They possess leathery arms as well as feet, all ending in vicious spiked talons. Some of them are even armed with primitive spears, suggesting they are not purely mindless animals, but a type of demon sub race.

One of vrocks spots the small party, and lets out a high-pitched squawk to alert the others. Soon the three women and the wolf are surrounded by hordes of the feathered fiends, with many more drifting ominously overhead. Karnwyr growls, no doubt mindful of what he perhaps perceives as oversized turkeys with claws.

Neeshka sighs.

"Let the fun begin."


	25. Chapter 24: Birds of a Feather

**Chapter 24 – Birds of a Feather**

A vrock lunges, swiping wildly with its vicious claws. Alya ducks, pivots, and pops up beside the demon. With a jumping kick, she hits the fiend in the back of its head, sending it sprawling.

Then all hells – or the Abyss, in this case – breaks loose.

The entire flock of vrocks seem to attack all at once. Caught amidst a horde of the towering, birdlike creatures, and lost in the mayhem of flying feathers and flailing talons, the monk loses sight of her companions.

But the vrocks, big as they are, are slow and clumsy on the ground, and Alya has no doubt that, like her, Elanee and Neeshka will be fully exploiting that disadvantage.

She whips out Liang Yi, her mentor's gift to her. Holding one of the two jade rods, she snaps the other end forwards. It connects with the beak of a vrock with a resounding _crack!_ before withdrawing as quickly as it had shot out. Then, she swings the nunchakus around herself, catching another demon square on its chin. The rebound generated on impact carries the chuck onwards, to hit yet another beast, this time with a sharp rap on the knuckles.

Alternating between twirling and flicking, Alya strikes at each creature's vulnerable points: head, legs, arms, and any bony body part, on which contact with a piece of solid jade would hurt like hells. The nunchucks, picking up speed and momentum with every impact, almost appears to gain a life of its own, as it whizzes about in a blur, mesmerising the vrocks, who are having trouble keeping up with the weapon's rapid movements.

One particularly painful looking whack across the temple sends a winged demon staggering back and collapsing, like a sack of potatoes. Spying the opening among the crush of plumed bodies, Alya pushes through the gap. Finally, she catches sight of the druid, the rogue and the wolf. All of them appear to have their opponents sufficiently under control.

"Let's go!" she shouts, hoping they could slip away whilst the flock of avian demons is in disarray. She breaks into a run with Karnwyr alongside her, and with the two women bringing up the rear.

"Did I mention that I _hate_ vultures?" she quips, once they are a safe distance away from the vrock camp.

Just then, the party is eclipsed by an ominous shadow. Alya hears a shrill screech, accompanied by a flurry of beating wings, coming up behind them.

_Fast._

"Get down!" she warns, diving for cover. There is a muffled thud, and a puff of red dirt, as Neeshka hits the ground beside her, but a startled cry from Elanee tells the monk that the druidess had reacted too late.

She glances up just in time to see the elf, caught by her shoulders, being borne aloft and carried away.

"Ela!" Neeshka jumps up, and just about manages to grab hold of one of Elanee's ankles before the wood elf is out of reach. The tiefling's tug-of-war with the colossal beast is brief, before, with a surprised yelp, she, too, is lifted off the ground, clinging on to Elanee's leg.

"Nee!" Alya cries in turn, as she latches on to the rogue. The vrock cannot possibly bear the weight of three people.

Wrong.

The monk feels herself take off, her arms wound tightly around Neeshka's waist. With a jubilant squawk, the vrock turns around, taking them back to its hilltop aerie.

And to the other waiting demons.

Grabbing onto Neeshka's belt, Alya begins to haul herself up.

"Hey, careful!" Neeshka protests. "Loose trousers!"

The monk is now on the tiefling's shoulders, and practically nose-to-nose with Elanee. With one arm hanging on to the winged creature's leg, she could see where the beast's sharp talons have dug into the druidess' flesh.

Up ahead, the rock formations come into view, with their demonic inhabitants circling expectantly.

She still has Liang Yi in her hand. She makes a move to strike at their captive's legs, but thinks twice when she realises just how high up they are.

Falling from this height is not going to be pretty.

Below them, Neeshka squeaks as she narrowly misses colliding into the tip of an enormous stalagmite.

_Must do something…_

The monk starts climbing again, up the back of the vrock's legs, and onto its haunches. When the giant bird beast feels her weight upon its back, it begins to buck, attempting to throw her off. Neeshka screams again, as she is swung dangerously from side to side.

Alya loses her footing, scrabbling desperately as she slides off the demon's back. She finds traction in a tuft of feathers, and manages to right herself.

They are now only yards away from the horde of chittering bird demons.

_Now or never…_

She throws the metal chain connecting her twin jade sticks around the vrock's sinuous neck. Crossing the chucks, she grips tightly with both hands.

And squeezes.

The vrock lets out a surprised, strangled "Garrgh?!" Tossing its head, it tries to loosen the vicelike hold on its windpipe, but Alya, like a Longrider astride a bucking bronco, hangs on for dear life.

"Aaalyaaa…!!" Elanee and Neeshka squeal in unison, as the thrashing creature flings them about like a rag doll, threatening to either drop them, or slam them against a rock face.

Then they see the massive outcrop looming ahead of them, a behemoth of a structure, dotted by jagged stone abutments.

Blinded by panic, the vrock is careening straight into it.

With everyone on board.


	26. Chapter 25: Bridge over Troubled Waters

**Chapter 25 – Bridge over Troubled Waters**

Neeshka screams again, as the choking, struggling vrock carrying them hurtles ever closer towards a head-on collision with the towering mound of red stone. Instinctively, Alya eases her stranglehold around the creature's neck, at the same time yanking hard on her nunchucks, as if it were the reins on a horse that could steer them out of an imminent crash.

Amazingly, the vrock suddenly pitches in the direction of the monk's pull, its wing tip grazing the face of the rock, as it swerves just in time to avoid impact.

For a split second, Alya is so shocked by the unexpected outcome, she merely sits there, a rider atop her feathered mount, as her incredulous mind struggles to process what had just happened.

Then the winged demon dips, as it again tries to throw her off. She cuts its aerial somersault short by twisting the chucks around its throat again. Tentatively, she gives her right stick a small tug. To her delight, the tanar'ri veers right, but not without putting up a fierce fight, one that nearly knocks her off her perch. It takes her a few moments, but she eventually finds the right balance of pressure, not enough to completely suffocate the vrock, but just enough to restrict its breathing, and to keep the huge creature under some semblance of control.

After a few more practice turns to convince herself that what happened earlier was not just a fluke, she gives the chain a sharp, assertive pull.

And points the reluctant flying beast towards the Grand Abyss.

--

"Ouch!" Elanee flinches as Neeshka bandages her wounds, sustained when the vrock clamped its razor sharp talons into her shoulders. The punctures are deep, and badly torn where they held her weight.

"Sorry," the tiefling apologises. "But it's really hard to be gentle with all this swaying!"

"Hey, I'm doing the best I can here!" Alya says, as she continues to concentrate on steering the still protesting vrock. During the commotion of the near-crash, Neeshka had managed to climb onto the demon's back, and an extra hard squeeze from the monk's nunchakus was all that was needed to convince the plumed tanar'ri to release its hold on Elanee.

Neeshka pours half the contents of a healing potion onto the wood elf's wounds, and makes Elanee drink the other half.

"There," the rogue sits back, satisfied. "Good as new – well, almost."

The druidess gags slightly. "But now I'm getting airsick."

"Well, it's much better than having to walk all this way on our own." Neeshka glances below them, where Karnwyr is running along the ground, following just a few paces behind. "I just feel sorry for the wolf."

"I doubt he'd have liked the ride anyway," Alya replies. They cough as they fly through an ash coloured cloud, the acrid fumes burning their lungs and stinging their eyes.

"Look!" Elanee points ahead at a dark ribbon of water stretching across the land. "The River Styx!"

"We're almost there," the monk agrees hopefully.

Suddenly, the unwilling vrock beneath them, who had been wheezing throughout their short flight, begins to hack and splutter. Gasping for breath, its wings abruptly stop flapping in mid-beat.

"Uh oh," Neeshka murmurs, as they start losing altitude. She grabs on to handfuls of feathers.

"Hang on!"

Luckily, the massive wings of the demon remain upright, giving the party just enough uplift, so that instead of plummeting straight to the ground, they glide downwards.

But still pretty quickly.

The red earth meets them suddenly, unceremoniously. The vrock crash lands face first, and skids a few yards before coming to a stop.

As they disembark on shaky legs, Alya checks on the poor creature. It is dead, and she feels a pang of guilt.

"I guess I might have been choking him too hard."

A panting wolf catches up with them. Whining softly, Karnwyr sneezes, and rubs his nose with a front paw. The fur comes away with a smear of blood.

Alya feels sorry for him; with his highly acute nose, he must really be suffering in this toxic atmosphere.

She uncorks a bottle of healing medicine, and pours a small amount into her cupped palm. She offers her hand to the wolf, who gratefully laps up the blue liquid.

"We may have to start sipping on these from time to time," she warns the women. The sulphurous air is extremely caustic, and she is starting to feel a rawness at the back of her throat, one that flares up with every inhalation of the repulsive gases, hanging heavily in the air like palls.

Ahead of them, the dreaded River Styx cuts across their path, an oily black python blocking their advance. As they walk closer to the shore, Alya makes a face at the stench of the murky waters. It smells of death and decay, like generations of accumulated sewage.

"We have to go _through_ that?" she asks, cringing.

"Heavens, no! Are you crazy?" Neeshka berates her. "It's the _Styx_! The waters are supposed to erode flesh and bone on contact! Drinking from it is said to kill you!"

"Ok, ok, point taken." Alya glances again at the carcass of the vrock they had ridden.

"Why couldn't you have died _after _crossing the river?" she sighs at the corpse.

"Over here." Elanee motions them over to a broken stalagmite. The base of the tall, toothed outcrop is but a scorched stump, perhaps a victim of a lightning strike, and the long rock formation has fallen right across the River Styx, forming a rudimentary bridge.

"Think it's sturdy enough?" The wood elf asks.

Alya examines the fallen monolith. Made from the same brick red material as everything else in this volcanic wasteland, the stone is solid, but crumbling in some places. Five feet wide in diameter, it tapers to a jagged point on the other end of the river. The monk wonders if the thinner end could support their combined weight.

"Looks good to me." With that, the half-elf springs onto the rock. Wiping the red dust from her hands onto her trousers, she stomps a couple of times, listening out for any hollow spots, scrutinising the soundness of the structure. Seemingly satisfied, she begins to cross the river, nimbly putting one foot in front of the other, testing her weight carefully before moving on. Behind her, Karnwyr jumps on, trotting easily along the rocky beam, followed by Neeshka, and finally Elanee.

The crossing seems to take ages. The going is agonisingly slow, as they tread warily, mindful of the fragility of their primitive bridge. The fumes rising off the steaming Styx is rancid, and the humid climate and poisonous air of the Abyss only serve to make the group feel more lethargic with every step.

After what feels like an eternity, the far bank beckons tantalisingly, just a dozen feet or so away. With a mixture of relief and jubilation, Alya moves a little quicker, eager to be on firm ground again, to get away from the putrid odours of the River Styx.

Suddenly, the muddy waters of the river below begin to bubble. Without warning, a crop of dark, glistening tentacles shoot out from the gloomy depths. Alya gasps as one of them grabs at her arm, ripping a hole in her sleeve.

_By the gods, those things have teeth!_

She ducks as another slimy appendage swings by her head. A high-pitched wail shatters the still, heavy air as the creature – whatever it is – attacks again. Barely balanced on the rocky stalagmite, they have no chance of fighting back.

"We have to make a run for it!" Elanee yells, as she evades a searching limb. It hits the precariously propped obelisk, sending shards flying, the impact reverberating dangerously all along the length of the column. With the underwater monster making short work of it, their bridge is not going to hold up for long.

Sidestepping the tendrils, Alya begins to sprint towards the opposite bank.

_Almost there, just a few more feet…_

Just then, a thick, coiling arm darts out of nowhere. Alya tries to dodge it, but she sees it too late. It hits her side on, sending her sailing off the rock.

And into the deadly, corrosive waters of the Styx below.


	27. Chapter 26: The Iron Fortress

**Chapter 26 – The Iron Fortress**

Arms flailing, Alya screams as she hits the roiling waters of the Styx. The shock of the surprisingly frigid water expels the air from her lungs, as she plunges deep into its murky depths. Involuntarily, she stiffens, anticipating the rush of searing pain, as the corroding liquid burns through her skin, and strips her flesh from her bones.

But all she feels is freezing cold, and a crushing feeling in her chest telling her that she needs to breathe.

Alya resurfaces, gasping for air. Temporarily disoriented, it takes her struggling mind a few short seconds to comprehend everything that is happening.

First is the surprising outcome of her fall into the Styx. Her skin is not red, nor peeling, nor melting off her body in bits and gobs. Even more curiously, there is a ring of _clean_ water around her, a crystal clear circle of around two feet in radius, separating her from the surrounding black, greasy muck, a protective capsule from the ravages of the Styx.

Secondly, Elanee, Neeshka and Karnwyr are safely ashore, and the girls are shouting at her. She sees the wolf approach the shoreline, barking, trying to get to her, but he recoils sharply when the water appears to burn his paw.

Finally, Alya realises _why_ the elf and the tiefling are yelling.

Coming up behind her is a mass of writhing, spiked tentacles, all of them poised above her, ready to strike.

The sight of the infernal creature is all the encouragement the monk needs. Frantically, she thrashes her arms, swimming towards the shore, leaving a silver trail of purified water in her wake.

She hears a shrill roar as the monster gains on her. In its element, there is no chance that she could out-swim it, especially with her waterlogged clothes weighing her down. The shore, just yards away, might as well be on the other side of the world. As a thick, serpentine appendage hovers menacingly over her head, she braces herself for the inevitable.

But then a loud, piercing shriek sounds right behind her, nearly splitting her eardrums. The searching limb retracts itself as if scalded. Alya does not turn around to find out why the beast had screamed, concentrating instead on reaching the shore. Her scrabbling feet finally find purchase in mud. Wading through the shallows, she hauls herself out of the water and stumbles aground, breathing heavily. She feels Elanee's arm on hers, as the wood elf asks if she is all right. Warm doggy breath invades her nostrils, as Karnwyr licks her face, bushy tail wagging a mile a minute. Neeshka is beside her, crossbow in hand and aimed towards the river.

Alya glances over her shoulder to see the river monster, limbs slithering, keening in pain from the bolt protruding from the midst of its squirming tentacles. With one final howl of defeat, the creature returns to the gloomy depths of the Styx, disappearing in a froth of bubbles.

The tiefling kneels beside the sodden monk, scanning her for chemical burns. Then she stares back at the river, dumbfounded. The sliver of clean, clear water that had shielded Alya from the poisonous Styx is now fading away, swallowed and contaminated by the great infernal river.

"How did you do _that_?" Neeshka asks, amazed, as she watches Karnwyr licking at his injured paw, burnt when he dipped it into the waterway.

Alya, feeling like a drowned cat, tries to wring as much moisture out of her robes as possible.

"I haven't a clue," she admits. "All I did was hit the water head first –"

Her sentence trails off when she notices the amulet that she normally wears tucked under her clothes. In the frenzy of that tentacled attack, it had fallen out, dangling freely by its leather thread. The polished pebble is _humming_, vibrating with some hidden energy, as the _laguz _rune inscribed onto the smooth stone emanates an eerie blue light.

She remembers the cryptic words of her _sifu:_

"_It resembles the element of water…__symbolises fluidity, changeability…__" _

The element of water. Changeability.

Could that be the rune's power? To be able to _change_ the properties of water? Could it have magical powers capable of purifying the most polluted of liquids?

The thrumming within the pendant recedes, and so does the cool blue glow.

"I think," Alya begins, "that we can stop worrying about using up our water supply."

--

The three women and the wolf sit at the furthest reaches of the campfire, keeping as far from the radiating heat as possible. Nights in the Abyss are hot and humid enough, and the flame is merely there to keep animals away.

And to dry out Alya's drenched clothes and equipment.

Her robes, trousers and slippers hang on a makeshift wooden rack beside the blaze, with her wet rucksack, and its contents, strewn about the campfire.

The monk, wrapped up in one of Neeshka's spare cloaks, is naked underneath. Her hair, still damp from her unprecedented dip, looks darker from its original reddish-brown. Coupled with the semi-darkness around them, it now seems more russet than burgundy.

Neeshka surveys Alya's drying inventory with curiosity.

"That shirt doesn't look your style…or your size," she comments, gesturing towards the item in question. "Nor those breeches." She begins to point out a list of objects:

"Hide boots, leather armour – you don't even _use_ armour – a longbow, a quiver full of arrows, dagger, short sword…is it just me, or are you planning on playing dress up ranger?"

Alya shrugs beneath the cloak, slightly embarrassed by her anal compulsion to be ever resourceful. "I…didn't think he could be so well equipped in…well, in the afterlife."

Both women turn at the sound of Elanee coughing. Sparingly, the druidess takes a small sip from a flask of healing potion. The thick, sulphurous atmosphere in the Abyss is not doing any of them much good, but the wood elf, normally accustomed to fresh, crisp forest air, is the worst affected. By contrast, Neeshka, with her demonic heritage, seems to be holding up pretty well.

"We won't be spending much longer here, are we?" the tiefling asks, concerned.

"I hope not," Alya replies. "We should get to the fortress by tomorrow. And then, once we rescue Corin, I'm sure he can just whisk us back to the rendezvous point."

"He'd better," Neeshka says, as she watches the monk feed Karnwyr more medicine. "At this rate, our healing supplies aren't going to last very long."

--

They reach the Grand Abyss the next day, a yawning, bottomless chasm stretched out as far as the eye can see, so expansive that the opposite side disappears beyond the edge of the horizon. An ashy, yellow-grey mist floats above the cavernous gorge, hanging heavily like a funeral pall, no doubt chock full of the poisonous gases saturating the air in this infernal land. Apart from a handful of lonely vrocks, gliding lazily over the rift, borne on hot, steamy currents, there are few creatures around the abyss. It is as if even demons fear the might and hidden magic of this enormous gulf, said to possess teleportative properties by the few who dare venture into its fathomless depths.

And there, perched atop a bluff overlooking this gaping crater, stands a towering iron fortress, rusty as the metal that was used to build it, its colour blending it in perfectly with the rest of the dull red landscape.

Aldinach's Egg, as it is named, is the lair of the powerful demon princess Aldinach, the Lady of Change. It serves a dual purpose: as a holding pen for the pure, the sacred and the holy, as well as a research laboratory, where the same prisoners are subjected to unspeakable tortures and experiments. Aldinach delights in tormenting wholesome, divine beings – unicorns, lammasus, ki-rins, paladins – and turning those who survive her gruesome dissections into twisted, evil versions of their true selves, enslaved as her minions, or conscripted into the tanar'ri army, to fight in the never-ending Blood War against the baatezu.

Somewhere, deep within the bowels of that vile stronghold, is the devil Spymaster.

From a hidden vantage point, behind a large boulder, the small group survey the citadel; the place is crawling with guards, demons and monsters of all shapes and sizes. One of the sentinels posted at the main entrance, with his blackened armour and once-noble, humanlike features, could well have been a gods-fearing paladin, once upon a time, before his abominable transformation into the gaunt, mouldering, shambling zombie he is now, in eternal servitude to a cruel mistress.

With the tight security around the castle, infiltration is not going to be easy.

"So," Alya whispers, as she consults Neeshka, their resident stealth expert. "How do we tackle this?"

The tiefling's mouth is drawn into a grim line.

"_Very_ carefully."


	28. Chapter 27: Letting Go

**Chapter 27 – Letting Go**

Q'ian Zang sits serenely on the cliff edge overlooking the High Forest, legs crossed, eyes closed, hands clasped together and resting in his lap. Breathing deeply, his snow-white brow relaxed, he is in a profound state of meditation. The uninitiated could well be forgiven for mistaking him for a dawdling old man, one who has fallen asleep sitting up, completely off-guard and vulnerable.

But that is not the case.

He hears soft, muffled footfalls coming up the mountain pass, and a barely perceptible chafing of cloth against leather. Whoever is approaching is skilled at moving stealthily, quietly, and although the person is not trying to hide his, or her, arrival, habit still dictates that he or she walks silently, until the person is just behind the ancient hermit.

"Ah, you have come," Q'ian Zang greets his visitor, as he slowly opens his eyes. "How very nice to see you again."

The guest, a ranger judging by his dress and gear, unslings his bow and pulls back his cape, revealing long, silky hair, pointed ears, and a face that could be deemed handsome, if only he smiled more.

"Master Q'ian Zang," Daeghun bows slightly. "It is good to see you too."

The old man rises with the help of his twisted cane, and the two friends embrace warmly. "Come," he urges. "Sit down. Would you like some tea?"

The ranger politely declines. "I'm afraid I'm not staying long," he apologises. "I have a shipment of furs I need to get to Secomber by nightfall."

Q'ian Zang nods, as he motions for the other man to sit on a fallen log. "I understand you have business to attend to." Snapping his long robes aside, he joins the elf on the felled tree, groaning softly when his arthritic knees creak and pop as they bend. Once comfortably seated, he chides gently, "You do not drop by enough. Have you forgotten this lonely old man?"

Daeghun smirks at the Kara-Turian, but his dour expression returns almost immediately.

"Actually…" he begins, producing the folded up parchment he received not too long ago. It was sent by Alya during her incognito visit to the Keep, but with all his time spent roaming the wilderness, and searching the remains of the Shadow King's lair for any sign of his missing foster daughter, it had taken the letter a while to finally reach him.

"I was hoping to see Alya."

The old man feigns a look of hurt.

"Ha!?" he exclaims, pretending to sound offended. "You come not to see me, but _Alya_? After not visiting for so long, you finally come, but _not _to see me?"

"That's not what I meant," Daeghun quickly corrects himself. "Of course I'm here to see you. It's just that…"

His voice trails off.

_It's just that I've been worried sick ever since she went missing. When I heard the sound of that fortress coming down, it felt like my whole world was collapsing in on me – again. I couldn't lose her like I lost Shayla. You don't know how long I've been sifting through the ruins, looking for her, even after everyone else had lost hope, even after _Bevil_ had given up trying. You don't know how many sleepless nights I've had, how often the constant nightmares wake me when I do nod off from pure exhaustion…_

Keeping all that to himself, Daeghun merely states stoically:

"I wanted to make sure she's all right."

The old man is eyeing him knowingly. "Of course she's all right," he says. "Why shouldn't she be?"

"T-then…where is she?" He berates himself for sounding a little too overeager.

"Ah," Q'ian Zang says again. "I am afraid you just missed her." He spreads his hands, palms up, in a helpless gesture, before adding cheekily, "You'll just have to content yourself with the company of an elderly man."

Daeghun sighs, disappointed. "I got this from her." He unfolds the letter in his hands and shows it to the sage. For the past few days, he had been reading and rereading it so often, he can now remember all the words – written in Alya's familiar, flowing script – by heart:

_Dearest Father, _

_I am sorry it has taken me so long, but I am writing now to let you know that I am okay. I am very sorry if I have caused you worry. However, please understand that I am unable to see you at the moment._

_Bishop is very sick. I know he betrayed us during the siege, and I know you never approved of him as a travelling companion, but believe it or not, __he__ was the one responsible for getting me back safely. It is also because he was trying to protect me that he got hurt. Like it or not, he saved my life, and more than once at that, so after all he did, I thought it only right that I try to repay the debt incurred._

_Please tell no one of this letter. I do not need the entire Crossroads Keep on my back. Better for them to think that I have fallen, as I do not need the responsibility of running the place right now. Besides, Kana would probably do a much better job._

_If you ever need to find me, I may be with Sifu_ _Q'ian Zang in his refuge on the Star Mount._

_Your Loving Daughter, _

_Alya_

"Is she still trying to save this Bishop?" he asks, after giving the old man a minute to peruse the letter, but the elderly Kara-Turian hushes him with one gnarled finger. Squinting, he holds the paper at arm's length, as he takes a longer time to read and comprehend what is to him an unfamiliar language. Fighting to contain his impatience, Daeghun sits silently, arms crossed, fingers drumming anxiously on his biceps.

"Ah," Q'ian Zang says finally. "Yes, she is. She fights to reclaim his soul from Hades."

"Reclaim his…?" The trapper cannot believe his ears. "You mean he's _dead_? He's not just sick?" He is nearly spluttering with disbelief. She would do all that for a _traitor_? One who nearly got her and everyone else at the Keep killed?

"B-but bringing someone back from the dead is _impossible_! What in Faerun could possess the silly child to go on such a fool's quest?"

"_Not _a fool's quest," the old man corrects him. "Dangerous, yes. Difficult, also yes. But impossible? No."

"It's just…" Daeghun recalls the younger ranger's perpetual scowl, his surly attitude towards everyone around him, including Alya. Why would the girl put herself through so much trouble for a lowlife like him?

"It's just that, I can't imagine why she'd want to do all that for that…that _man_." He emphasises the last word with disdain, as if he is using the term sparingly in Bishop's case.

"Why not?" the old man queries. "It is what she wants." He raises a white eyebrow quizzically.

"Do you question her intentions?"

"No," the elven ranger replies. "I question her _decisions_. Silly girl." He speaks as if Alya is right there, as if he is scolding her in person.

"I should've gotten here sooner. Perhaps then I could have talked her out of it this wild goose chase."

"Why do you want to 'talk her out of' this 'goose chase'?" Q'ian Zang questions again, quoting the other man, no doubt unacquainted with some of the Common expressions used.

"Because she shouldn't waste her time on someone like him," Daeghun asserts. "He is untrustworthy."

Now both his ashy eyebrows shoot up.

"Why do you find him untrustworthy?" the sage asks again. "Is it because you cannot trust yourself?"

The ranger frowns, confused. "What do you mean by that?"

Q'ian Zang smiles kindly. "Is it because he reminds you too much of yourself?"

"What are you talking about?" Daeghun appears offended by the comparison. "I am in no way like him!"

"True, of course," the old man assents, "just as every leaf bears a different pattern, no two men are completely alike. But, two leaves can fall from the same tree."

The ranger does not like where the conversation is heading. It has been so long since he was on the receiving end of a lecture, he is starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable about the prospect.

Narrowing his eyes, he asks warily, "And what tree is that?"

"Now, I am no expert in trees, and I base my observations only on Alya's description of Bishop's character," the hermit admits humbly, before venturing, "But perhaps, a tree that builds thick walls of bark, to hide its soft inner core?" He fixes Daeghun with a gaze so intense and penetrating, the ranger squirms in his seat despite himself.

"Both of you seem to hide true feelings behind stony faces, and show affection by acting cruel."

Daeghun remains still as a statue, struggling to maintain an air of impassivity, hells-bent on acting as if the sage's words had _not _struck a deep chord.

"But the man has already died," he argues, his tone petulant even to his own cuspate ears. He knows he is fighting a losing battle. "It is…_unnatural_…to bring back the dead. She should put all this behind her and move on."

Q'ian Zang's gaze softens slightly at the ranger's apparent discomfort. He places a wrinkly hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Are not all men made by nature?" the old man poses. "If so, then should all our actions not all _stem _from nature? If resurrection is possible, then who is to say it is unnatural, if man were able to achieve it?"

The withered hand squeezes the ranger's arm lightly.

"If you could, would _you _not have considered it?"

Daeghun is silent, as he stares at a particular patch of gravel at his feet. In his mind's eye, he sees an image of Shayla, with her corn silk hair and sapphire eyes. Dear, sweet Shayla, who loved Alya as if she were her own daughter.

The gods know he would have done anything to get her back.

"_You _still hang on to the past, yet you expect her to move on?"

The ancient sage's tone is tender, but his words are profound. The elf continues scrutinising the earth, counting the number of pebbles in view, _anything _to avoid the wise old man's searching gaze, but his tally is interrupted when his vision blurs, as his eyes begin to mist over.

"I just…" He pauses to steady his faltering voice, before starting over. "She is my daughter. I made a promise to protect her. I have failed before, and I have never forgiven myself. If Bishop betrays her again…"

He leaves the sentence hanging.

"I just don't want anything to happen to her."

"Now why would you want to do that?" Q'ian Zang seems genuinely shocked by the notion. "If you never let anything happen to her, then _nothing_ will ever happen to her. And she would never have become the strong woman that she is."

Daeghun considers the old man's words. It seems to make sense.

_I hate it when that happens._

Blinking back his tears, the ranger relents, defeated.

"So you think I should let her go?" He tilts his head heavenwards, making a show of admiring the noonday sky, all the while hoping that gravity would drag his tears back into their ducts.

"You will never know how magnificent the flight of an eagle can be until you set it free."

"I sincerely hope you're right," the trapper sighs, feeling he has had more than enough of ambiguous proverbs to last an elven lifetime.

He stands, brushing off his trews. "I must make a move." The two men embrace again. "And, Master Q'ian Zang? Thank you."

The hermit shrugs modestly, patting the ranger's back. "I have done nothing."

"You have done more than you realise. Alya is fortunate to have you as a teacher."

The elf turns, flips his hood back on, and makes to descend the ridge, but he stops suddenly.

"Master?"

"Yes, Daeghun?"

"You haven't…told her…you know, have you?" He eyes the white-haired sage meaningfully.

"About her true parents? No, no," Q'ian Zang shakes his head, his flowing beard swishing from side to side. "Fry too many fish at once, and they all end up spoiled. Let her concentrate on one thing at a time," he advises.

Daeghun nods in agreement. With one final nod, he slips down the mountain pass, a ghost vanishing soundlessly from view. Behind him, he hears the elderly sage's parting call:

"Do not be a stranger! Come back again soon!"


	29. Chapter 28: Inside the Labyrinth

**Chapter 28 – Inside the Labyrinth**

The two rutterkins guarding the rear entrance into Aldinach's fortress turn at the sound of approaching footsteps, spears at the ready, yellow fangs bared. A tall, lithe figure emerges from the shadows, its identity hidden beneath a low hood.

"Show yourself, stranger!" one of the sentries commands, grunting in Abyssal.

The mysterious guest dutifully allows the hood to fall back, revealing a head of flaming hair, cropped short in a pixie cut. Her tiny horns and orange-red eyes belie the demonic blood running through her veins, and a long forked tail swishes beneath her cloak.

Despite not being a pure tanar'ri, she is still one hot demon.

"State your business," the larger of the rutterkins barks, not bothering to disguise his roving eyes.

"I have a message for Lady Aldinach," the tiefling announces in their infernal language.

"Envoys normally go through the front entrance." The other guard jerks a fat, clawed thumb towards the direction of the main gates.

Eyes shifting, the messenger leans forward, whispering conspiratorially.

"I bring top-secret information regarding the Blood War," she confides. "It is important that nobody knows I'm here."

With that, she eyes the two sentinels appreciatively, before winking playfully.

"Come on, cut me some slack here, I'm on a tight schedule."

The tanar'ri watchmen hesitate, wary of the stranger, yet drawn to her at the same time. One of them scratches his long conical head, wondering what to do.

"Fine." The tiefling sighs theatrically. "I understand. You are merely doing your job." She gives one of the rutterkin's bicep a flirtatious squeeze. "And I must say, you are doing it _extremely _well. Nevertheless," Her eyelashes flutter as she eyes them provocatively.

"Is there some way I could…speed up…my passage?"

The smaller guard blinks rapidly, and babbles something incoherent. The other demon stands stock still, licking his green lips greedily.

The tiefling giggles. "I have an idea," she suggests, teasing both rutterkins under the chin with her slender, dexterous tail. "To _prove _to you that I'm completely harmless, I am willing to submit myself to a security check."

She purrs into the taller demon's pointy ear.

"You can take my clothes off – bit…by…bit."

The guards swallow loudly, unable to believe their luck. To think that a saucy messenger would come on to them this way!

One of them stumbles forward clumsily, grabbing and groping, but the tiefling avoids him nimbly, dancing tantalisingly out of reach.

"Uh, uh," she chides cheekily. "I can be a bit…shy." She motions towards a crop of boulders not far away. "Perhaps somewhere we can have a bit more…privacy?"

Leading the way, she sashays towards the rock pile, hips and tail swaying suggestively. Blowing a kiss, she disappears behind the stony mound.

Practically foaming at the mouth with lust and excitement, the two rutterkins nearly fall over each other in the rush to join the sexy tiefling. Dumping their weapons in their haste, they disappear behind the heap of boulders.

There are two successive, muffled thumps, followed by a couple of earth-shaking thuds, akin to someone dropping two heavy sacks of grain. The tiefling reappears, looking extremely pleased with herself, followed by a grey wolf. From their hiding places behind the outcrops, Alya and Elanee emerge, each still armed with the rock they had used to knock the sentries out.

After quickly high-fiving each other, and congratulating Neeshka on her award-winning performance, the three women and Karnwyr slip unnoticed through the now unguarded door.

--

The interior of Aldinach's Egg is every bit as grim as its rusted and tangled façade, if not worse. Narrow, winding passages twist and turn into the darkness, sparsely lit by sputtering torches that cast ghostly, flickering shadows along the mouldy stone walls. The air is dank, laden with the smell of mildew and wet rot, and even the smallest sound appears amplified as it reverberates ominously across the empty halls.

The party moves in a single file, hugging the slimy walls, with Neeshka in the lead, her movements sure but silent. Karnwyr pads behind her noiselessly, followed by Alya and then Elanee, both girls doing their best rogue impersonations as they tiptoe along as quietly as they can.

The tiefling holds up her hand, motioning for everyone to stop. The cramped corridor widens up ahead, ending in a high-ceilinged room of some sort. Possibly the main lobby, its worn flagstones are covered with a thin, threadbare carpet, that could well have been a luxurious purple a few decades back. The cavernous chamber is lit at uneven intervals by candles set into ancient, tarnished candelabra. At the far end of the hall, a rickety looking spiral staircase leads both upwards – to the floor above – and downwards, into a black, inky darkness.

It is this flight of stairs that the rogue is now pointing at.

"That's the way into the dungeons," she whispers. "But we need to get past Twiddledum and Twiddledee."

She gestures towards the two immense, hulking brutes in the far corner, shaggy goristros: muscular beasts with broad shoulders, and arms as thick as trees, so long that their knuckles drag across the floor as they walk. Their features are bovine, like a bison's, complete with a pair of lethal looking horns.

The demons are hunched together, grunting at each other in their guttural native tongue. With their backs turned, now is the best time to move.

With a signal from Neeshka, they enter the hall silently, creeping through the shadows, moving tightly against the walls, casting precautionary glances at the two goristros regularly. Their destination, the wrought iron steps, seems agonisingly far away at their slow, prudent pace, and Alya has to resist the urge to rush straight across the open foyer.

The staircase is only about a dozen yards away now. Crouching in the shadows under a dilapidated side table, they could see the iron steps disappearing down the dark stairwell.

_Almost there, _the monk tells herself. _It's about time this whole mindless charade of Mephasm's is over with – _

Her thoughts are interrupted by a shower of dust and a tiny creak, one that sounds almost deafening in comparison to the stealthy silence they had successfully maintained, until now, when a lapse of concentration has resulted in the monk bumping her shoulder against a shaky table leg.

The conversation between the two goristros pauses in mid-snort.

_Ohhh shite…_

What transpires next all occurs in the space of a few seconds, but to Alya time seems to have stood still.

As both massive demons freeze, then begin to turn their horned heads slowly in the direction of the noise, Neeshka darts out from under the table, dragging the monk behind her. A heavy wooden door stands ajar next to them. With lightning speed, the tiefling pulls Alya into the room beyond, and shuts the door as soon as Elanee and Karnwyr dive through the rapidly closing gap.

The party hold their breath as they wait for the sound of approaching footsteps, bracing themselves for the imminent melee that would ensue if the guards were to enter this room to investigate.

Neeshka peers through a small gap in the door, and sees the two beasts frowning at the very desk they were hiding under.

Then, shrugging dismissively, the goristros return to their idle chitchat.

_Phew! _Alya mouths to the rogue at their close call. Neeshka, her cheeks puffed out with relief, merely nods.

And then Elanee abruptly lets out an ear-splitting shriek.


	30. Chapter 29: Cruel Mercy

**Chapter 29 – Cruel Mercy **

Elanee's scream echoes deafeningly through the dank, dimly lit room. Desperately, Neeshka clamps a hand over the druidess' mouth, but instead of muffling her cries, it only seems to intensify them, such that it now sounds like _two _terrified voices instead of one.

Then Alya realises that there is _something else _in the room screeching.

Whirling away from the door, she finally faces the interior of the room.

And sees what had set the wood elf off.

Alya has to choke back a scream of her own, as she takes in the gruesome sight before them: they appear to be in a laboratory of some sort, only 'laboratory' is way too benign a word to describe the infernal chamber of horrors; all four walls are spattered with a reddish-brown liquid, a grisly mixture of both fresh, drying and ages-old blood. A series of wooden workbenches, stained almost black with the gore of countless victims, display – in diabolically neat rows – all manners of sinister looking equipment: scalpels, hooks, pliers, spikes, and many other unidentifiable, but no less menacing, tools, most of them flecked with crimson and globs of pink gristle. In the middle of this infernal workshop, like three diabolical islands rising out from the blood engorged floor, are a trio of what look to be operating tables, all caked in layers of claret, and fitted with restraining straps, braces and chains, no doubt utilised to hold down unwilling subjects.

There, tied to the middle table, keening in utter agony, is probably what _really_ drove Elanee hysterical.

Alya's disbelieving eyes takes in all of this in a matter of seconds, before a pair of heavy footsteps approaching the room snaps her out of her appalled trance.

All the commotion has attracted the guards.

The monk dives under one of the abhorrent workbenches just as the door creaks open. In the semi-gloom of her hiding place, she sees a pair of tarnished plate mail boots stepping across the threshold into the chamber, followed by the long, hirsute arm of one of the goristros, its knuckles dragging along the floor as it walks.

The prisoner on the table shrieks again, and the two demons make low, grunting noises. It sounds like they are cackling, laughing heartlessly at the hapless captive, delighting in its plaintive cries. Alya has to swallow the rising bile at the back of her throat.

With one final chuckle, the boots disappear, the door slams shut, and the clunking footfalls fade off into the distance.

Slipping out from under the bench, being careful not to get too much of the surrounding gore on herself, the monk spots Neeshka, one hand still over the mouth of a shell-shocked Elanee, pressed against the wall on the hinged side of the door. Karnwyr trots out from under a deserted operating table, looking just as reviled by the sights and smells of the room as everyone else.

Alya is surprised she had not detected that awful stench as soon as they entered the place. Coppery and sour, it smells of putrefied innards, burnt flesh, and of bowels loosened by unspeakable torture.

Fighting down a wave of nausea, the half-elf turns again towards the occupied operating platform.

Splayed out on its side, and anchored to the macabre podium by iron shackles, lies the bloodied shadow of a once majestic unicorn. The poor creature's cheeks are sunken, its ribs showing up starkly under its loose skin. Its pure white coat is matted with blood, and bald patches reveal not healthy pink flesh, but a deathly grey pallor. What used to be a magnificent flowing mane is now a chopped up spit of dirty, straggly hair. Similarly, the thick and lustrous tail hairs are gone, leaving just tufts of singed bristle on blistered skin. A jagged gash, stretching across the beast's stomach, is roughly sewn back up with thick black threads, and rancid, yellow-green pus oozes from the gangrenous wound.

But the worst sight of all, the one that sears its detestable image forever into Alya's subconscious, the one promising a lifetime of relived nightmares, is what had been done to the unicorn's horn.

The animal's single, regal, pearlescent horn, the colours of a shimmering cloud at sunset, a long, straight cone spiralling gracefully to a dainty point, now lies bloody and thoughtlessly discarded on a side bench. It had been cruelly hacked off, perhaps even _torn _off. Worse yet, protruding instead from the unicorn's forehead, embedded where its horn used to be, is a black, gnarled spike, sharpened to a vicious point, growing out from the unicorn's head like some sinister tumour, making Alya's guts churn with horror and revulsion.

The pitiful beast neighs weakly, straining half-heartedly against its bonds, its strength, and its spirit, all but destroyed. Elanee lets out an involuntary sob, and rushes over to the creature's side. Stroking its impressive muzzle, she coos soothingly in its ear, her face streaked with tears.

Tentatively, Alya reaches out a hand to pat the animal's flank. Where it had not been singed or matted with blood and dirt, the unicorn's hair is soft and downy, as yet uncorrupted by the evils around it.

With immense difficulty, the great creature lifts its massive head, no doubt seeking the source of this unexpected kindness. A large blue eye focuses on the half-elf, and she nearly gasps. The colour of pale aquamarine, its limpid eye is still clear, shining brilliantly, like a bottomless mountain spring one could drown blissfully in. Amid its liquid depths, Alya can see the reflections of untold pain, torture, and primeval fear. And yet, above it all, she sees an uncanny spark of intelligence, and a stubborn defiance, an innate purity still untouched by the horrors it has witnessed.

Alya feels a glowing ball of anger expanding in her chest, boiling the blood in her veins. How could anyone do this to such a pure, beautiful, magical creature? To defile this magnificent symbol of all that is good, mutating it into some sick abomination, a twisted slave of evil?

"She is in a lot of pain," Elanee is saying, her voice quivering, as if she can feel the unicorn's suffering. She lovingly caresses what is left of the creature's elegant mane.

"I've got some healing potions left," Neeshka offers, hoping to be of some help. "If we free it, can it escape on its own?"

The unicorn whinnies hoarsely, and the druidess hangs her head.

"She can feel the darkness inside, eating away at her," she translates. "It is too late. Her transformation is nearly complete." When she looks up, the elf's eyes are swimming with fresh tears.

"There is only one way to help her."

The note of finality in Elanee's voice leaves no doubt about their grim task ahead. But how should it be done? Slitting its throat? A blade through its heart? They all seem too…messy, somehow, too demeaning. None of them is a fitting way for such a sacred beast to die.

_I don't think I can do it…_

As if sensing her reluctance, the unicorn trains its gaze back on Alya. Again, the monk experiences a sensation of falling, as she stares into those hypnotic eyes of blue diamond. The creature is looking at her, its expression desperate, pleading.

With a sigh, Alya turns away, scratching her head. Her eyes fall upon a large, thick canvas, tossed carelessly in a pile. It looks to be the cover for one of the operating tables. As she kneels to inspect it, she finds it dusty, but much cleaner and less bloody than everything else in this gods-forsaken laboratory.

Her hesitant eyes meets Elanee's weepy ones. The wood elf nods her approval.

Gathering the musty material in her arms, she returns to the unicorn's side. Again, her gaze falls inadvertently on those huge, clear, enchanting eyes. Alya could have sworn she saw a fleeting flash of fear in those twin turquoise pools, but it is swiftly replaced by a glimmer of hope.

And acceptance.

Exhaling loudly, the monk throws the heavy, folded up burlap over the animal's head.

And presses down. Hard.

She hears a muffled whinny, then laboured gasping, as the unicorn struggles vainly to breathe. Sobbing almost convulsively, Elanee clings on to the creature's neck, still stroking and crooning softly to it, telling it that everything will be all right, that its suffering is almost at an end. The beast kicks once, twice, but it is merely a defensive reflex, as the unicorn surrenders almost willingly to its fate.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the animal gives one last twitch, and is still.

Breathing heavily, Alya removes the canvas from the unicorn's face. She is greeted again by one brilliant ice blue eye, but this time she sees nothing within its glassy depths. Staring vacantly upwards, its light is already beginning to dim.

Biting her lip, the half-elf pushes the eyelid down, closing that beautiful eye forever. She, too, is crying, as she consoles Elanee, who still caresses the dead creature, tears streaming down her face. Neeshka, all the while standing impotently in one corner, wipes furtively at her own wet eyes.

Finally, Alya pulls away, still shaken by the euthanasia she just had to perform, but her watery eyes glint with steely determination and righteous fire.

"Let's get the Hells out of here."


	31. Chapter 30: Breakout

**Chapter 30 – Breakout**

The low, ominous blare of a horn echoes through the dingy stone corridors, signalling that someone has discovered the mess they left behind in the dungeons. Vaulting up the stairs, taking them three at a time, Alya leads the escape, the rest of the party close on her heels, with Neeshka swearing like a Luskan sailor as she runs.

"Bloody no-good devil!" she spits. "Typical, just whisk _himself_ out of this place as soon as he was freed, why not! Oh no, let's not worry about his rescuers; they can _fight_ their own way out!"

They had found the captured Spymaster deep within the bowels of the damp and dark dungeons. Trapped in the middle of a powerful circle of runes, he was standing proudly, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly impervious to the constant taunts from his demon guards, the green iron mask that hides his true identity giving him an almost noble air of impassiveness in the face of the crude provocations of his captors.

Subduing the sentries was a none-too-difficult task, considering they were so intent on torturing their prisoner, they were taken completely by surprise. Then, with instructions from Corin, they removed the spell keeping him confined within the runic circle. As soon as he was released, however, he had summoned up a portal, and without even a rudimentary 'thank you', disappeared.

As the group re-enters the cavernous main lobby, they are confronted by the two hulking goristros they had earlier evaded. Nostrils flaring, the demons charge forward, axes swinging. One of them, bellowing loudly, bears down on Alya.

Suddenly, like some celestial wrath of the gods, a column of blinding white light slams down onto her attacker from above. From the monk's flank, a fair-haired female paladin, bastard sword raised, rushes the stunned demon. This is almost instantly followed by a piercing screech, as the second goristro is beset by a flurry of feathers and claws. Dodging the angry sphinx, Alya runs ahead, with Elanee, Neeshka and Karnwyr close behind. Freeing the remaining captive prisoners, who would otherwise no doubt become part of some twisted psychopath's sadistic experiments, has proven to be a good idea after all.

"This way!" Neeshka shouts, pointing towards a heavy wooden door at the end of a long hallway, their exit from this infernal place.

But their path is blocked by a towering monster of immense proportions; eight feet tall and almost as wide, with arms as thick as tree trunks, and an array of spikes running down its hunched back, the shambling hezrou growls menacingly as it advances on the party, the ground shaking with every step it takes. Its skin oozes a foul-smelling greenish liquid, and Alya has to swallow a wave of nausea as the stench assails her nose.

"My, my, my," says a raspy female voice, as a lithe woman, dressed in a black silk robe with billowing sleeves, tanned skin gleaming like polished mahogany, steps out from behind the repulsive behemoth. "So these are the intruders responsible for all the ruckus in my Egg."

"That must be Aldinach," Neeshka whispers warily. "The so-called Lady of Change. Mephasm says she owns this hells-hole."

"What is it with these people and spooky masks?" Alya wonders aloud, as Aldinach steps out from the shadows, revealing tapering fingers ending in long sharp needles, her face concealed behind a milky white alabaster mask. Glowing red eyes peer out from behind the blank visage, eyeing each woman in turn, a pair of sinister beacons from the depths of the Hells itself.

"Mortals?" she exclaims in a mildly amused tone. "All the way here in the Lower Planes? You're a bit far from home, aren't you?"

Aldinach points a dagger-like digit at the monk.

"Tell me," she demands, "why do you lay siege to my dungeons? And who sent you? Most mortals are not even aware of my fortress' existence, much less where to find it."

"My reasons for being here do not concern you!" Alya retorts, "But know this: your diabolical experiments will stop today!"

Aldinach's fiery eyes narrow into slits, as she contemplates the half-elf's words with mild amusement, seemingly unperturbed by all the chaotic fighting around them, between her guards and the freed prisoners.

"Brave words," she muses, "and _evasive_. I wonder...was it some desperate deal with the devil that sees you here, doing some baatezu's dirty work?" The pin-points of light from the mask are like twin augurs, boring straight into Alya's very soul.

The monk shifts uncomfortably. How do all these demons and devils strike so close to home with their observations?

The demon cackles at her apparent unease, a cruel, inhuman sound.

"So typical of you humans, allowing yourselves to be driven irrationally by mere emotions. It is no wonder your race is so...mediocre."

"Yeah well, at least humans aren't as sick and twisted as you are!" Neeshka snaps, jumping to her friend's defence.

Aldinach regards the tiefling disdainfully, and Alya can imagine the lips behind that mask pulling back in a contemptuous sneer.

"How sad," she sighs dramatically, "A _half_-demon, whose very essence has been tainted by human blood! Sick and twisted? It only appears so to the uninitiated, to those who has never known the joys of experimentation, and the satisfaction of watching your creations thrive! Can you imagine the sense of achievement, the electricity that courses through one's veins, when one is able to essentially change the very nature of a beast? I am sure the demon part of you can understand that! And perhaps..." the Lady of Change's gleaming eyes darken with foreboding.

"Perhaps, tiefling, you'd care to experience the miracle of transformation firsthand? Let me have a go on you? Come on..." She approaches the rogue menacingly.

"I can turn you into a _proper_ demon..."

"Ugh!" Neeshka recoils in revulsion, and spits something in Abyssal. Aldinach halts in midstride, as if she had been slapped in the face.

"Hunh," the masked woman sniffs. "How charming. If this is the thanks I get for trying to help a fellow demon..." She snaps her knife-like fingers at the monstrous hezrou.

"Kill them."

"Um, Nee," Alya begins, as the towering beast looms over them, its pug nose scrunched up in a snarl, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. "What exactly did you say to her?"

"I called her the inbred daughter of a lemure." The thief shrugs at the monk's quizzical expression. "Trust me, it's terribly insulting."

A clawed fist the size of a boulder smashes down between them, cracking the pavestones underfoot. Alya tumbles out of reach and whips out _Liang Yi_.

"Quick, head for the door!" she yells. "I'll keep him occupied!"

"Are you crazy?" Elanee exclaims. "You'll get crushed!"

"No time to argue!" the half-elf's tone is firm, with a note of finality. "_GO!_" As Elanee, Neeshka and Karnwyr reluctantly slip behind the gigantic demon, Alya darts forward, nunchucks spinning, aiming the twin rods at the creature's thick kneecaps. The jade stick connects with a resounding _THWACK! THWACK! _but the lumbering giant does not stumble. Did it even _feel_ those strikes? Charging forwards, it stamps an enormous foot down, right where Alya had been standing just a fraction of a second ago. The reverberations from the impact throws the monk off balance, and the next sweep of the hezrou's tree-like arm clips her shoulder, sending her sprawling. Before she can recover, an ominous shadow falls over her. Looking up, all she sees is the green, slimy underside of the monster's huge foot, as it descends unerringly onto its hapless victim.

Just as the half-elf wonders if there is any worse, less dignified way to die than being snuffed out by a massive, smelly foot, a blue-white cone of frost slams into the hezrou's side, knocking the demon off her.

Jumping gratefully to her feet, Alya turns to confront her unlikely saviour; a magnificent silver dragon, with ice blue eyes and cold vapours streaming from its nostrils. Despite being a mere juvenile, it is still a sight to behold: brilliant scales the colour of quicksilver, with a pale blue tinge betraying the dragon's relative youth. A trace of a beard is beginning to grow on its chin, clear and pointed, like icicles forming on a wintry branch.

The dragon unfurls its expansive silver wings, and with a shrill cry akin to the toll of a thousand wind chimes, it launches itself at the now frost-covered hezrou, still reeling from the shock of the first attack.

Seizing her opportunity, Alya races for the back door, only to find Elanee, Neeshka and Karnwyr still at loggerheads with Aldinach herself, as the demon blocks their exit. Standing with her back to their escape route, the Lady of Change slices the air threateningly with her needle-sharp claws. The tiefling, dagger drawn, has her other arm protectively around Elanee, who is clutching her own arm as it hangs, apparently useless, by her side. The wolf, growling low, interposes himself between the girls and Aldinach.

"Watch it!" Neeshka warns, as Alya attempts to rush the demon. "Her nails are tipped with poison!"

Just in time, the monk steps back, as five blade-like fingers narrowly miss cutting her face into ribbons. She glimpses a green, foul-smelling liquid oozing from the barbed tip of each digit.

"I grow weary of my unwelcome visitors," Aldinach hisses. "I think I shall feed you all to my Brethren."

With a screech, the Lady of Change lunges forward, claws slashing. Anticipating the move, Alya side-steps the demon, grabbing her by the wrist. With her other arm, the monk swings her elbow in a tight arc, catching the demon in the face. With Aldinach still moving forwards, aided by a tug from the half-elf, the force of the impact is immense. Alya hears a crunching noise as the stone mask crumbles, its fragments showering the ground around them in a cloud of alabaster dust.

When the monk looks up again, what she sees is a face so hideous, she has to fight back a scream of terror; blotchy orange skin stretched tightly over a skull-like face, with two holes over a bony projection passing as a nose, and dark grey, almost purple lips, curled back to reveal yellowed, uneven fangs and a black forked tongue.

A horrified shriek punctures the air. At first, Alya assumes it must have been one of the girls reacting to the sight of the demon's face.

Then she realises the ululating wail is coming from Aldinach herself.

"_NOOO...!!_" she howls, desperately trying to hide her grotesque features behind a flared sleeve. "Avert your gaze! No one must see!" Sobbing, the demon collapses against a wall, one hand still covering her face, the other fumbling wildly for the remains of her shattered mask. Glancing around, Alya spots Elanee and Neeshka, both standing stock still, staring dumbly at the abomination before them.

"Let's go! Now!" she yells, snapping the others out of their stunned stupor. Together, they bolt through the now unguarded door, back out into the oppressive atmosphere of the Abyss.

"Woah," Neeshka whistles, "talk about a complex!"

Ahead of them, in the distance, a shimmering portal materialises out of the gloom. Almost simultaneously, a roar sounds behind them, as Aldinach's henchmen give pursuit.

"Run ahead with Ela!" Alya orders the rogue, as she fishes out a handful of ordinary-looking throwing stars from a pouch. As she tosses one, however, it hits the ground in front of a charging rutterkin, and detonates in a ball of fire, sending both dirt and demon flying.

The monk catches up again with Neeshka, who is lugging a progressively limp Elanee, as whatever paralytic poison Aldinach had injected into the wood elf spreads through her system. Throwing one of the druid's lifeless arms over her shoulder, Alya helps Neeshka carry her. Up ahead, Mephasm appears from behind the swirling portal, calm and aloof as ever in spite of the proximity of the marauding demons.

Turning, Alya launches another explosive projectile at their pursuers to delay their advance. The beckoning portal is but yards ahead of them, but encumbered with an injured elf, their progress is so excruciatingly slow, it may as well be miles away.

A large goristro, surprisingly agile considering his bulk, had managed to dodge Alya's last two throwing stars, and is now catching up to the fleeing party. With one burly hand, he latches on to the monk's shoulder, almost crushing her collarbone in his vice-like grip.

Forced to release Elanee, Alya swings round to face the demon, catching the beast in the snout with a well-aimed forearm. Karnwyr, from out of nowhere, clamps his jaws down on the goristro's hand, loosening the creature's hold on her shoulder. In a flash, the monk draws her nunchakus, and proceeds to batter the demon with her spinning rods, finally felling him with a sharp crack across the temple.

Elanee and Neeshka are now mere inches away from their escape portal. Running to join them, with Karnwyr bringing up the rear, she watches with relief as the girls step through the threshold to safety.

Her comfort, however, is short-lived, for no sooner had her companions entered the glowing portal, it begins to shrink and fade.

"Wha-?" the half-elf begins, but the portal is fast dissipating. At a full sprint, she runs for the closing gateway. Just as she pulls up within arm's reach, the last vestige of the glowing wormhole evaporates.

Before Alya's mind could register this unexpected turn of events, another portal suddenly springs up, right beside where the first one had disappeared.

"Hurry!" Mephasm presses, an uncharacteristic note of urgency in his voice. "They're coming!"

With an entire troop of Aldinach's demons right behind her, there is no time for hesitation. She leaps through the swirling gateway and falls into a spinning vortex of colour and light. After what seems like an eternity of tumbling through a disorientating limbo, she stumbles and lands heavily onto fine, hard-packed dirt. Mephasm, strolling through the portal after her, casually snaps his fingers, and the magic opening disappears.

_I can never get used to interplanar travel..._

Staggering queasily to her feet, she surveys her new surroundings; a drab ocean of grey sand stretches out before her in all directions. Neither building nor tree nor stone interrupts this endless expanse of desolation. Similarly, the sky above is a slab of grey steel, with no cloud or sun to punctuate its monotony. The atmosphere, whilst not choked with toxic, sulphurous fumes like that in the Abyss, is nevertheless heavy, with no hint of the slightest breeze. Alya strains her ears, trying to pick out a sound, _any _sound, in this drab wasteland, but the silence is almost deafening in its totality. All she can hear is her own breathing, and the panting of the wolf beside her.

_This place is _dead_._

"I know," sighs the pit fiend beside her, "it's depressing, isn't it?"

Once her head has stopped spinning from the dizzying journey through the portal, Alya realises something is wrong.

_Terribly _wrong.

"Where are the others?" she asks, frantically looking around despite the fact that there is nowhere for anyone to hide in this flat, barren landscape.

"Your friends? They went through the other portal, of course."

Alya glares at the infuriatingly smug devil. "I _know _that! But where are they _now_?"

She steps towards Mephasm threateningly.

"What have you done to them?" Her voice is low, dangerous.

The pit fiend pretends not to hear her, as he absent-mindedly inspects his clawed fingernails.

"You know what Aldinach keeps in those long talons of hers?" he asks. "Poison, and a very interesting kind; you see, it causes paralysis, first at the site of injection, but then it spreads, until it completely immobilises its victim. But you probably already know that."

He glances up at the monk with his infernal red eyes.

"But do you know? That is when she begins her...experiments, on them – when they cannot move, yet are fully conscious, and so are very aware of what she is doing to them..." When the devil smiles, he reveals a row of sparkling white fangs.

"Your dear little elven buddy would not have survived much longer in the Abyss. The atmosphere was too...caustic, for her, accustomed as she is to fresh woodland air." He tuts sympathetically. "Add to that the poison coursing through her veins, well..." he lets his sentence trail off.

"Well, what?" Alya asks, fists clenched tightly. "Spit it out!"

"The deal was to bring you to Hades in return for freeing our Spymaster," the devil goes on, seemingly oblivious to the monk's agitation. "The...recovery operation, though far from being as _discrete_ as I would have liked, nevertheless, achieved the stated objective, so I am obliged to uphold my part of the bargain." Smiling again, he turns to Alya.

"And I have."

"The Hells you have!" the half-elf curses. "So where are they? If you kept to your word, they'd be here!"

"Ah, ah..." Mephasm shushes her, raising a pointed index finger to his blue-grey lips. "I promised to bring _you _to Hades. At no point in our bargaining did I agree to bring you _and _your friends."

"B-but...then..." Alya sputters, her rage barely in check. The sly devil had tricked her!

"_WHERE THE BLOODY HELLS ARE THEY?!"_

The pit fiend merely shrugs. "Where do you think? Back where they belong. In the Prime Material Plane. It's the best place for your druidess friend. They can get her the help she needs there." He cocks a blue eyebrow at her, as if to say "You should thank me; I did you a favour there."

"You..." the monk spits vehemently. "You manipulative bastard! You used us as a group when it suited you, when numbers were needed to get to Corin. And now..."

"That reminds me," The blue devil interrupts her. "Corin sends his thanks. He also apologises for his behaviour in the dungeons, but his incarceration...weakened him, so he couldn't bring you with him when he escaped. But I'm sure you understand."

"You set me up!" Alya is livid now. "You planned this all along, to get me stranded in the Nine Hells alone!"

"Trust me," Mephasm assures her. "There is nothing your friends can do here that you cannot do alone. Besides," he gestures towards Karnwyr. "You have that primitive life form to keep you company. And," he begins to speak to her patronisingly, as one would correct a young child.

"This isn't the Nine Hells. It's _Hades._"

Straightening up to his full imposing height, he turns to go, their conversation over.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," he adds, almost as an afterthought. Without bothering to look back at her, he jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

"You need to go that way."

With that, the pit fiend vanishes, dissolving into dark wisps in the gloomy dullness.

Dumbfounded, Alya stares, speechless and frozen, at the spot where the devil stood mere moments ago. She is _so _mad, she needs to hit something, _anything_, but there is nothing in the grey emptiness to kick or punch, or even throw, so she settles for stamping her foot like a child throwing a tantrum, bringing up a cloud of clay-like dirt. The dust tickles her throat, and she covers her mouth, coughing. Her hand comes away dotted with blood.

When was the last time she had taken some healing potion? Her adrenaline rush gone, she suddenly feels spent and weak. Uncorking a bottle of oily blue liquid, she takes a deep swig, then gives the rest to Karnwyr. At least the air here in the Grey Wastes, oppressive as it is, does not burn their lungs when they breathe.

Which is just as well, as they are down to their last bottle of salve.

Groaning as she stretches her aching back, she scans the horizon in the direction Mephasm had pointed in. No well-worn paths, no signposts, no landmarks, no outstanding features, _nothing_ that she could use as a marker to ensure she stays on the right course.

What if she strayed? She would have no way of telling. How far does she have to travel? She has no idea either, but any minor deviations could result in her missing her destination by miles. How long then will she wander aimlessly through this gods-forsaken place? And what manner of creatures prowl this unfamiliar terrain, ready to pounce on the unwary, the lost?

Alya shakes her head, dispelling her worries. Now is not the time. She is so close now to her goal, she could feel it.

She could feel _him_.

Throwing her satchel over her shoulder, she calls for Karnwyr, and together, they begin their trek towards the unknown.


	32. Chapter 31: Assimilation

**Chapter 31 – Assimilation**

Darkness, pure, black darkness, and pain, constant, unyielding, all-encompassing pain, dominate his consciousness. In this bottomless sea of nothingness, wave after wave of agony crashes over him, threatening to unravel every fibre of his being, the pervasive burning sensation corroding his very soul.

How long has he been tormented, buffeted about in this ocean of emptiness? He does not know. How did he come to experience such suffering? He does not remember. In fact, he remembers little of anything; all he seems to know is this endless torture, and the disturbing knowledge that, once he does stop feeling this pain, he will cease to exist.

A part of him, longing for release from this infernal hell, is actually begging for that day to come sooner.

Suddenly, the inky blackness parts, and he sees a dim, grey light. He tries to move, to claw his way towards what could be his salvation, but his limbs are heavy, tied down by a green mould, and by the gluey remains of thousands of petitioners who have met with the same fate as he.

Craning his neck, he stretches his head towards the orb of light. In it, he can just make out a bleak landscape, devoid of colour, a lifeless, barren desert.

But _anywhere _would be better than being in this infernal wall, would it not?

Something slimy coils itself round his neck, crushing his windpipe and drawing him back, away from this opening to the outside world, and back into the depths of the very hells.

_No_, he thinks, _not again_, but he barely struggles. It has happened many times before, this hole in the Wall, the result of the parting of the writhing bodies of numerous other prisoners. But every time he tries to make a break for it, every time he tries to fight his way through, he is invariably and cruelly held back, and the resultant pain and punishment is always especially unbearable.

_Why should this time be any different?_

He fights his bonds, half-heartedly at best, as they draw him deeper and deeper into the centre of the wailing Wall, until the cries of despair from the suffering souls around him threaten to deafen him.

If he could move his arm, he would almost shrug. He is beginning to find it harder and harder to care when his attempts at escape fails, and every time the tide of bodies reveal another shaft of light, another route to the outside world, his urge to escape becomes weaker with every failed endeavour.

Perhaps his spirit, his will to survive, has been broken.

Or perhaps it is merely being dissolved by the eroding Wall.

The thought of complete assimilation no longer scares him. He almost welcomes the oblivion of non-existence, for the sweet release from all this pain and suffering.

_What else do I have to fight for anyway?_

_Nothing._

The glowing orb begins to shrink as the gap closes, until once again, the slim window of opportunity disappears, and the almost comfortingly familiar totality of darkness envelopes him once again in its throes of eternal suffering.


	33. Chapter 32: Final Destination

**Chapter 32 – Final Destination **

There is a dead stillness in the air, broken only by the sound of near-silent footfalls on fine grey dust. The sky remains a sheet of dull tarnished metal, with no indication of day or night. Alya has lost all sense of how long she has been in this infernal Plane, much less if she is still going in the right direction. Trudging along on weary legs, she has been refusing to stop and rest in the fear that pausing in the middle of this forsaken desert would cause her to lose her bearings.

And her will to go on.

She had felt it the moment she entered this blasted wasteland – the prevalent veil of apathy weighing down the very air she breathes in, the temptation to just give up all hope, to surrender herself at the mercy of Hades.

_Remind me again why I'm doing this...?_

Karnwyr stalks silently beside her, sullen, his furry head bowed low, as if he too feels the draining effects of the Fugue Plane.

Alya stumbles, and she has to flail her arms to regain her balance. What did she catch herself on? The ground in this dreary place is completely flat. Her tired legs had tripped over nothing but thin air. All this sleep deprivation is definitely taking its toll. When was the last time she had rested? It has been so long, she could barely remember. For sure, she has not slept a wink since starting on all this Planes travelling malarkey. Her last slumber must have been back in her mentor's cave, the night Mephasm had visited her in her dreams.

The night she had that nightmare of Bishop being absorbed into the Wall of the Faithless.

She shakes her head vigorously, as if doing so would clear her mind of this thick fog of fatigue. Recalling the disturbing images from her nightmare has given her some renewed determination. With a deep breath, she forges onward, her eyes downcast, concentrating on her moving feet, watching every step carefully, her brain fully focused on putting one increasingly heavy foot in front of the other without falling over from sheer exhaustion.

* * *

Karnwyr snorts as he sniffs the ground before him, blowing up a cloud of grey dust. He sneezes as the fine particles tickle his nostrils. The red-haired one plods along behind him, looking increasingly lethargic with each step. The wolf is feeling pretty tired himself, but he pushes on, intent on finding his master. No doubt, this quest to seek his lost human has taken him to the strangest and most unnatural of places, places seemingly not of the world he knows, probably places where no wolf has ever been; vast, rocky open spaces, without trees or vegetation, deserts devoid of rabbits, or birds, or insects, inhabited instead by unfamiliar and dangerous-looking beasts.

What unnerves him most, though, is the _smell_ of these places; gone is that ever-present, earthy scent he knows so well, the crisp aroma of a lush forest he used to take for granted, always relegating it to a background odour in favour of the trail of a squirrel, or a bitch in heat. How he misses that woody fragrance now! The last place they had been to, the one with that eerie blood orange sky, was the worst; the air was poisoned, he is sure of that, filled with an acrid smoke that burnt his nostrils, his throat, even his lungs, every time he inhaled its toxic fumes. It was like breathing in liquid fire.

He is thankful to be away from that awful place, and even more thankful he has the red-headed woman with him. With her oily water that makes things all better, she had healed his bleeding nose, and he is finally able to breathe without pain again.

He wonders, though, if the bad air in that other place had permanently damaged his sense of smell; in this new place, this colourless world, he cannot pick out a single scent. Everything just smells dead. Not dead, as in rotting; he would not mind that odour of decay at all. No, this place is _dead_, as if its very life force is missing, leaving a gaping emptiness, a vacuum that threatens to devour the wolf's spirit as well.

Every so often, Karnwyr turns around to sniff at the woman's hand, if only to reassure himself that his nose is still working. Her now-familiar scent, soft and sweet, with the slightly tangy hint of fear, has a calming effect on the animal. Yet he is also worried; every time he smells her, her scent appears weaker than before, as if her very essence is being leeched out of her by this unnatural wasteland, as if her soul is slowly being sucked out of her, leaving behind an empty shell.

_We have to find the master soon, _Karnwyr thinks urgently. _Otherwise, I might lose this female as well._

Suddenly, the wolf stops, frozen in his tracks.

_What was that?_

Tilting his grey head back, he points his nose skywards, sniffing loudly. Yes, there it is again, that musky and bittersweet scent, faint and fleeting, almost intangible, but unmistakable in its familiarity.

_Master!_

With an excited bark, the wolf dashes off, leaving the stunned woman behind in a cloud of grey dust.

* * *

"Karnwyr?" Her canine companion's sudden change in temperament startles Alya out of her lethargy. Yelping excitedly, the wolf is tearing ahead as if possessed.

"Karnwyr, wait up!"

Coaxing her leaden legs to move, Alya begins to run after the wolf, already a hundred yards ahead, impatiently waiting for her to catch up, whining nervously and spinning in tight circles. As soon as she gets close enough, though, he sprints forward again, leaving a wispy trail of disturbed earth in his wake.

"Slow down, boy!" the half-elf wheezes, but the creature's renewed energy is infectious, and Alya finds herself forgetting her fatigue as fresh adrenaline surges through her veins, refuelling her tired muscles and revitalising her foggy mind.

And with this much-needed injection of vigour comes a flicker of hope.

_Could it be? Karnwyr's caught his scent! He's close!_

The possibility spurs her onward, quickening her steps, faster and faster, until she is in a full run, lagging merely paces behind the grey wolf. Up ahead, the flat, featureless horizon that has been staring Alya coldly in the face for so long is finally punctured by what looks like the tip of a shimmering spire. As they get nearer, the rest of the glass structure looms into view, like an oasis risen from the sands of this barren desert - a magnificent palace cut from the finest crystal, surrounded by a foreboding walled city.

At long last, their final destination is in sight.

_But now what?_

As they continue their approach, Alya automatically makes a beeline towards the huge and imposing wrought iron gates. What she will do once she gets there, though, is still being questioned. Will they let her in if she asks nicely enough? Or will she need to sneak in through another entrance?

Will she have to fight her way through?

They are less than fifty paces away from the gates now. Alya can see two hulking beasts, heavily armoured and armed, guarding the entrance.

A direct assault on these two monsters is probably not the wisest option.

The half-elf is still debating over the next course of action, when she notices that Karnwyr has veered away from the path leading up to the main gates, and is instead skirting the outer perimeter of the city's defensive wall, sniffing and whimpering anxiously.

_He's _not _in the city?_

Following the wolf, Alya jogs up closer to the city walls.

And recoils in horror.

Covering her mouth with both hands to muffle an involuntary scream, the monk stares in disbelief at the sight before her.

_The Wall of the Faithless..._

It is every bit as gruesome as in her dream: layer upon layer of decaying corpses, piled over ten feet high, remnants of limbs and torsos sticking out from the grotesque masses of rotting flesh, some of them still twitching and writhing in agony. Decomposing faces, twisted in anguish, stare at her with black hollow eye sockets, moaning and keening in abject misery.

And the smell...

By the gods, no living person would have ever smelled anything like this: putrid and thick, the overwhelming stench of a thousand decomposing bodies assails the monk's nostrils, so strong she could almost taste the sour bitterness of mouldy flesh at the back of her throat.

Alya gags at the odour as vomit surges up her throat. Doubling over, she retches uncontrollably, her shoulders heaving as she empties the contents of her stomach, again and again, until she is gasping for breath, her eyes clenched shut from the effort. The keening wails of the suffering petitioners seem to grow louder and more desperate, as if entreating her for help. Covering her ears does nothing to drown out the awful screams of utter despair. It is as though the cries are resounding within her own skull, threatening to drive her mad.

But amid all the cacophonic shrieking and groaning, Alya could just make out a more familiar voice. Opening her eyes, she sees Karnwyr, sitting on his haunches further down along the macabre Wall of the Faithless, his head thrown back in a long and mournful howl.

Wiping spit off her chin with her sleeve, she runs up to the wolf, all the while averting her gaze from the hideous Wall, the collar of her robe pulled up round her nose in a feeble attempt to stave off the repulsive smell of rancid meat. By the time she reaches Karnwyr, the wolf is in a state of extreme distress; yowling inconsolably, he alternates between charging the wall and retreating backwards, his thick grey coat matted with the putrid, greenish-yellow gunk oozing from the wall.

Fighting the sinking dread in the pit of her stomach, and the second wave of bile rising up her throat, Alya forces herself to look at the portion of the Wall that is exciting the creature so. At first, all she sees is more of the same: twisted faces, mangled limbs and contorted bodies, all bound tightly into the foundations of the Wall by a slimy chartreuse mould.

But then she spots it, the source of the wolf's frenzy, barely visible behind a gnarled hand and a layer of translucent goo. She can recognise those haunting amber eyes anywhere, those bright lupine eyes, perpetually burning with indignation.

Once, she had even witnessed them blazing with passion.

But now, buried amid the masses of greying flesh, those same eyes appear dimmed, as though the flames behind them had been smothered by the oppressive weed binding him to this infernal Wall.

As if the fires of his spirit had been extinguished.

"NO!"

Forgetting her revulsion of the Wall, Alya throws herself bodily into it, tearing and clawing, fighting her way through the mould and the wailing corpses, ignoring the abhorrent stench and the burning on her exposed skin from the caustic slime. The more cognizant of the Wall's petitioners, sensing a faint chance of salvation, grab desperately at the monk's legs, arms, hair and clothes, clinging on to her with bony fingers, dragging her further into the bowels of the organic structure, and plunging her into a thick, heavy darkness. Partially blinded by both the lack of light and the stinging mucus in her eyes, Alya digs ever deeper, undeterred, her arms flailing wildly to reach those fading golden eyes.

As the Wall closes in on her, engulfing and crushing her beneath the weight of a thousand cadavers, one of the monk's outstretched hand finds something cold and clammy, yet familiar; a rough palm, with calluses especially on the index and middle fingers, and with a smooth, raised scar across the back of the knuckles.

Bishop's right hand.

Alya grabs his hand and holds on tight, afraid he would slip away. A feeble twitch as he reflexively closes his hand around hers gives the monk a glimmer of hope. And is that the faintest twinkle of recognition in his eyes?

Perhaps she is not too late, after all.

Suddenly, Alya feels a sharp pressure around both her ankles, as if a pair of vices had latched on to her legs.

And they were pulling her.

_Away _from him.

_No! _she thinks, her tenuous grip on Bishop tightening. _Not yet, not now..._she tries to bring her other arm over, to grab his hand with both of hers, but the arm is trapped, suspended in the treacly mire of mouldy slime and rotting flesh. She hears a wet, sucking sound as the lower half of her body is pulled free from the confines of the Wall. The mucus on Bishop's hand is making it slick and slippery, and as she strains to hold on, his palm slips slowly from her grasp, leaving just his fingers in her clenched fist.

And they are slipping, too.

"Nooo...!!" she screams, as the last point of contact between her fingertips and Bishop's is lost, and she is yanked bodily out of the Wall. Her ankles still held up by whatever was pulling her, she lands face down in the grey dirt, looking up just in time to see Bishop's amber eyes disappearing into the depths of the wall of flesh.

_So close...I was _so_ close..._

Physically and mentally spent, the monk lays where she has fallen, lowers her head, and begins to sob, loudly and uncontrollably.

* * *

The soldiers stare quizzically at the crying half-elf, who seems oblivious to the burning slime dripping off every inch of her body and matting her reddish hair. Luckily for her, they had spotted her slipping off the path leading to the city gates, and had followed her, initially concerned she was a demon scout on a pre-raid reconnaissance mission. Neither of the watchmen had expected to see her plunging headfirst into the Wall.

Her furry, four-legged companion continues to bay forlornly at the section of the Wall from which the guards had pulled the woman out. Now, this odd creature, who had just moments ago tried to get herself swallowed up by the Wall of the Faithless, is laying spread-eagled on the bare earth, weeping pitifully, rivulets of tears leaving trails down her soil-caked face.

What is even stranger, is the fact that she is _not _a petitioner.

"Call the chief," commands one of the sentry, a hulking half-orc.

"We got ourselves a live one."


	34. Chapter 33: A Divine Challenge

**Chapter 33 - A Divine Challenge**

_Dead._

That is how she feels inside: tired, hopeless...

And dead.

She barely even remembers how she got from the Wall of the Faithless to this holding cell within the sullen grey city. The guards probably had to drag her limp and lifeless form all the way here. Every last ounce of energy within her exhausted body has truly been spent.

_And all for nothing._

Every muscle in her petite frame is sore and crying out for rest, her mind is dulled and lethargic, and her eyelids heavy, but yet sleep would not come.

She pictures Bishop's wolf-like eyes again, glowing dimly amid the writhing masses of decaying flesh. She recalls the feel of his rough palm in hers, as she tried to hang on, to pull him out, to free him from his hellish prison.

And again, she remembers the awful feeling of helplessness she felt, when his fingers slipped slowly out of her grasp, and he disappeared once more into the putrid sea of suffering petitioners.

_All this way, all this time...all for nothing..._

A solitary tear wells up from the corner of one green eye, but that is the only sign of emotion from the half-elf, as she lies listlessly on the sparse straw mattress within her cell, staring blankly at the grey stone ceiling. She has depleted all her frustration, despair, anger - all her emotions have been drained throughout this long and tiring journey through the Outer Planes, and now she merely feels a hollow emptiness inside. Whether it is due to fatigue, or because of the soul-sapping properties of the Fugue Plane, she does not know.

And neither does she care.

Very briefly, she wonders what the penalty is for a living mortal who desecrated the Wall of the Faithless - imprisonment? Death? Or worse? But the effort of trying to guess the punishment for her crime requires too much brain power, more than she has at the moment.

_Not that it matters anyway..._

Something warm and wet tickles her cheek, lapping up the lone teardrop snaking its way down her face. In her peripheral vision, she recognises Karnwyr's grey snout. The wolf had been in such a frenzied state at the Wall, he was literally foaming at the mouth. Refusing to leave his long lost master, he had viciously snapped at the guards who tried to lead him away. They had to summon a mage to cast a Hold Animal spell on him in order to safely transport him without the risk of losing any digits. Like Alya, he seems much more subdued now, as he lies by her side, his chin rested on her shoulder.

The sound of approaching footfalls barely registers in Alya's sleep-starved mind, but she acknowledges the metallic clanking of the cell door opening by lazily rolling her eyeballs to focus on the person entering her chamber.

Stout and barrel-chested, the chief of the guards nevertheless has a commanding presence; powerfully built, the dwarf's dark beard is neatly trimmed, with the first signs of grey flecking his close-cropped hair. Despite his gruff manner and authoritative aura, his grey eyes are soft and kindly, as he carries a tray and places it beside the half-elf.

"Captain Argus Thunderblade, at yer service, me lass," the dwarf says with a curt bow, his loud booming voice bouncing off the stone walls of the prison. He proffers a bottle of blue healing potion, a washing basin full of water, and a rag.

"Here, get yerself cleaned and healed up."

In response, Argus is met with stony silence, as the monk merely rolls her eyes back heavenward.

"Come now," he persists, dipping the cloth into the soapy water and wringing it out before wiping Alya's face with it. "Let's get all that muck off ya. That goo will only cause more damage if ya leave it on longer."

"I don't care," comes the feeble, petulant reply, as the half-elf weakly swats the damp rag away.

"Ya don't care?" Argus appears confused. "But why not? Ya must be in a bit o' pain there."

It is only now that Alya realises that her skin is an angry red, with blisters on the areas most covered by the flesh-eating slime from the Wall of the Faithless.

_So that's why I'm sore all over._

"Here." The dwarf splashes some healing salve on the cloth, and begins to tend to Alya's wounds. "There, that must feel a lot better."

The half-elf smirks humourlessly.

"No it doesn't," she sighs, "it doesn't feel any better at all."

_The pain goes much deeper._

"Ach," the dwarf tuts in a fatherly tone. "It can't be _that _bad." From eyewitness accounts, this non-petitioner had tried to kill herself by diving headlong into the Wall of the Faithless. Of all the ways to commit suicide, this was probably the most outlandish, stupid - and horrible - way to take your own life.

"_Not _that bad??" Despite the leaden weight of her spent body, she props herself up on one elbow, and stares Argus in the eye. "_Not _that bad??" She laughs a hollow laugh. "I have spent the better part of the last moon, running about like a headless chicken through all of Faerun, making dodgy deals with devils, and_ literally_ going through the Nine Hells...and what do I have to show for it? _Nothing! _Do you still think it's not _that _bad??" She grabs the washcloth and flings it across the room, where it hits the wall with a wet splat. When she turns back to the dwarf, her eyes are glistening with fresh, unspilled tears.

"Not a bloody thing to show for it all," she repeats in a defeated whisper. Heavily, she drops back onto the mattress, and turns her back on the guard captain. "So unless you have some magic potion that can turn back time, or something, I've had a long, hard, and to say the least, _disappointing_ journey, and I'd like to be left to rot in my jail cell in peace."

Wordlessly, Argus retrieves the thrown piece of cloth, and hangs it on the lip of the washbasin.

"I'm sorry lass, I'm afraid I cannae do that. It would be against me orders, which is to get ye cleaned and presentable in five minutes."

"What's the rush?" Alya asks sarcastically, her back still turned. "I thought I had forever in this infernal place. What's the hurry?"

The dwarven guard merely shrugs, as he leaves the cell to give the half-elf some privacy.

"The big boss wants to see ya - and he doesn't wait fer no one."

* * *

Five minutes later, Alya, accompanied by Argus and another guard, is standing in the middle of an expansive plaza directly facing the crystal tower. She had scrubbed up as best she could, given the limited resources and time, and she believes she looks presentable enough for someone who had traversed half the Outer Planes without sleep. Nevertheless, she could not entirely rid herself of the smell of the wall slime, and with more than a bit of embarrassment, she can still detect an unpleasant, sour odour lingering on her skin and clothes.

Both she and Karnwyr are unrestrained; neither is tied up in shackles or chains, suggesting they do not deem her or the animal as a threat.

But what would the God of Death want with a mere half-caste mortal and a wolf?

_I guess security breaches involving the Wall are serious enough to warrant divine intervention._

Just then, the mighty glass doors of the crystalline building open, revealing a tall, robed figure standing at the threshold of the arching doorway. As the Lord of the Dead steps forward, both the guards beside Alya prostrate themselves in reverence, leaving the half-elf standing awkwardly, unsure of the appropriate holy protocol.

Before she could decide whether she should fall to her knees, bow or curtsy, Kelemvor addresses her directly, his deep voice resonating across the empty square.

"Identify yourself, mortal, you who have caused such a stir in my realm."

Taking a deep breath, Alya steps forward, bows her head in a gesture of respect, and speaks, her voice quavering slightly in the presence of the powerful deity.

"My name is Alya Elvawiel of West Harbour."

"And please state, Alya Elvawiel, your intent here in Hades." In spite of the stony mask and pupil-less eyes, the monk feels exposed and vulnerable in Kelemvor's sightless gaze, as if the god could see through her and into her very soul.

"Um...I come to retrieve the soul of...a friend."

"And has that..._friend_...passed?"

_Why the emphasis on that word?_

The half-elf looks away from those soul-searching blank eyes.

"Yes, he has."

"How long has it been since he passed?"

"More than two weeks ago."

"But surely the elements would have claimed the body by now."

"I..." Again, she is mesmerised by those haunting eyes. "We...my master and I...found a way to preserve it."

"I see..." Kelemvor appears to study the half-elf as he ruminates. "So, have you found your friend's spirit?"

Alya bites her lip at the gut-wrenching image of Bishop wasting away in that wretched wall.

"I have."

"Within the Wall of the Faithless?" Kelemvor presses.

The monk nods grimly, her lips drawn tight.

The Lord of the Dead appears to draw himself up to his full height, looming even taller than before.

"Are you, Alya, aware of the nature of the Wall?"

"Y-yes. It's where the souls of people who did not worship a god in life goes."

"And do you realise that the sentence passed cannot be changed, nor reversed?"

Those sightless eyes appear to bore through her flesh, stripping away at her, until her soul is laid bare for all to see.

"I...I wanted to try and save him _before _he got put into the Wall. I know I'm too late. But...but I've come so far...and when I saw him, he looked...he was suffering, and it looked like he was _dying_, all over again." She clutches at tufts of red hair in frustration, as the tears threaten to return. She takes a moment to calm herself, to still the quivering in her voice, before continuing.

"He died before my eyes once. I'm not going to let it happen again."

A heavy silence settles over the square, as Kelemvor appears to contemplate her words. After what seems like an eternity, he asks, "What will you do now?"

Alya sighs. "I don't know. That's the honest answer. I've come all this way, I can't go back without trying, now that I'm so close, but I don't know what else to do. I could, literally, keep banging my head against the wall..." her self-appreciative chuckle at her own lame joke dies in her throat at the sight of the god's unamused expression. "Ahem, but I'm sure you'll soon stop me from doing that."

"As a mortal, you cannot remain in Hades for long," warns the Judge of the Damned. "You could soon lose your own soul."

The half-elf shrugs. "It's not like I quite know the way home anyway. And, no disrespect, my Lord, but I have no intention of leaving without Bishop."

"But the sentence has been passed," Kelemvor reminds her.

"I know, my Lord, and nobody can change it, except..." The monk's eyes light up with a sudden revelation, as she glances up at the God of Death with renewed determination.

"Except you."

Kelemvor's mask remains expressionless.

"Yes, _you _can change all this, _you _can reverse the sentence! You're Lord of the Dead, after all." With Alya's growing conviction comes a brazen boldness, as she entreats the greater deity.

"_You _can free Bishop's soul."

Slowly, deliberately, Kelemvor shakes his head ominously.

"The overturning of a sentence is never done. That is the law."

"Ah, but you havethe _power_ to change the law, don't you? That's the whole point! You _made _the rules! I don't care about some stupid thousand-year-old policy! You can change all that!" A chorus of gasps sound behind the monk as the guards react to her blasphemy, but she pushes on.

"I'm _begging_ you! There _must _be a way, and I know you know it! Just tell what I need to do!"

Kelemvor's tone carries with it a note of finality.

"There is nothing that can be done."

Her jaw set with determination, Alya locks eyes with the God of Death, and for once, her unwavering gaze stands up to the deity's penetrating scrutiny. Dropping to her knees, she spreads her arms out to her sides, offering herself to the god.

"Do what you want with me for my trespassing and my assault on the Wall, but let Bishop's soul go. Please," Despite her imploring tone, her eyes remain steely and unflinching, as she challenges the Lord of the Dead.

"I'll do _anything_."


	35. Chapter 34: A Test

**Chapter 34 - The Test **

The tension in the plaza is palpable from the silent stand-off between the mighty god and the tiny mortal. The half-elf, still on her knees before the Lord of the Dead, eyes Kelemvor intently, as if mentally imploring him to spare her companion's soul. Behind the impassive silver mask, Kelemvor marvels at the little mortal's audacity; attempting to _bargain_ with a greater deity?

Yet the god recognises this small, red-haired mortal; he has seen her in the vision of the petitioner who calls himself Bishop, before he had passed judgment on the man. Bishop had died so this Alya could live, and now the half-elf has come all this way from the Prime Material Plane to reclaim his soul? Clearly, there are some very strong feelings between these two mortals. In fact, the bond between them must be very special indeed, that they are willing to risk their very short lives for each other.

Unlike many of the other gods, Kelemvor was once mortal, and despite what he leads the other gods to believe, enough of his humanity still remains for him to empathise with the plight of mortal men, and it was this compassion that once led to him to being accused of incompetence by the Circle of Greater Gods.

It was not always this way, this City of Judgment. When he first assumed the position of Judge of the Damned, he had appraised each petitioner purely by their deeds in life; the evil were severely punished, and the virtuous and honourable spent eternity in paradise, whether or not they had followed any god in life.

But that did not go down well with the members of the Circle. What good was there of worshipping a deity in life, when in death one was judged on one's merits alone, and not on any allegiance to a god? The other deities feared that they were being robbed of potential followers. No, mortals must be made to _fear _the consequences of being a Faithless or a False, _regardless_ of their morality. They must be made to believe that their souls are doomed in the afterlife, and that their only salvation is the deity they had chosen to serve in life.

And so Kelemvor was forced to make changes, and the Wall of the Faithless was introduced, all in a bid to up worshipper numbers.

Even the gods are not immune to politics.

The Judge of the Damned still cringes inwardly whenever he has to condemn a noble petitioner to eternity in the Wall. Kindness, compassion, virtue, honour, courage...none of them matter if one is a Faithless or a False. The unfairness of this sentence, the capriciousness of the other gods, it all sickens him sometimes.

Now, as he hovers over the kneeling mortal woman, deliberating her bold offer, the human side of him cannot help but be touched by the strong emotions between the half-elf and her 'friend'.

"Tell me, Alya," he ventures. "This Bishop...do you _love_ him?"

The monk appears surprised by the personal line of questioning.

"What has that got to do with anything?" she asks defensively.

"Death is a natural part of life. Most mortals, no matter how pained they are over the loss of a loved one, would accept it as the will of the gods. Yet you have not only travelled the planes to try and resurrect this man, you are offering yourself up to an unknown fate in exchange for his soul's freedom." He studies the woman as she squirms uncomfortably.

"_Why _are you going through all this trouble for him?"

Kelemvor watches as the half-elf fiddles nervously with a lock of russet hair.

"L-look," she fumbles, "Bishop and me, we've been through a lot together, okay? Through the last couple of years, he's saved my hide more than a number of times. He's been a good friend, even when he's trying not to be. And, well, he took a poisoned arrow for me, and it..." she finds it hard to say the word. "It killed him. And that arrow was meant for me. I've been feeling guilty about it since. I also feel I owe him a debt, and want to repay it to, um...ease my conscience."

The god smiles knowingly behind his silver mask. He remembers with fondness how stubborn humans could be about their own feelings.

_But what can you do about it? _he asks himself. _Even if you do sympathise with her, rules are rules..._

_Are they not?_

This is a most unprecedented situation, but not a unique one; throughout his reign as Judge of the Damned, this is actually the _second_ time he has been requested to recover a soul from the Wall of the Faithless.

Not long after the Wall was first conceived, Adon, patriarch of the church of Mystra, the goddess of magic, was driven mad by Cyric, the god of strife, in an attempt to convert the priest into a follower of the Mad God. In his madness, Adon had denounced Mystra, hence becoming a Faithless. When he died, Mystra had pleaded with Kelemvor to spare her priest and friend's soul. With a pang of regret, Kelemvor recalls how he had steadfastly refused, citing that the law cannot be changed for anyone, not even a goddess.

As a result, Adon was consumed by the Wailing Wall.

And Kelemvor's relationship with Mystra had ended.

Today, he has the chance to make a decision he dared not make the last time. Why should anyone else suffer because of some petty holy edict? But he is in a dilemma; he cannot be seen by the other gods as weak-willed, bending to the whim of a half-elven woman.

Somehow, he must appear to be in full control.

And he has an idea how to achieve that.

* * *

_It was her._

He was sure of it. Those cat-like green eyes. That burgundy hair. Her soft, small hand that briefly clutched his own.

And then she was gone, as quickly as she had appeared. Was it just a dream? Wishful thinking? For the first time in a long time, he had felt the faint stirrings of emotion - hope, followed by disappointment. But then the soul-sucking cloud of apathy descended again, and he surrendered himself once more to the mouldy, fleshy bonds of his morbid confinement.

But then something else happened.

When he first saw the tiny pin-point of grey light, he barely gave it a second thought; yet another window to the outside world, formed by the random parting of writhing bodies. Yet another cruel teaser attempting to get his hopes up, only to crush them again.

But this opening did not close.

Instead, it _grew_, larger and larger, until he could actually see the barren landscape outside his eternal prison, and the pair of armoured brutes who had reached in and roughly plucked him out from the tangle of slime, mould and rotting flesh. There was instant relief as soon as he was pulled free, both physically as well as psychologically. The terrible, ever-present burning was gone, and he could swear he felt his spirit restoring itself. But the long days in the Wailing Wall, witnessing and experiencing terrible agony, had turned his mind into mush, as he struggled to say anything coherent, or make sense of what was happening to him, and why. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, the fear that the mental damage was permanent, and that he would never recover his cognitive abilities. But as the guards dragged him about in his groggy state, bits and pieces of past memories slowly began to return.

The bath had helped as well.

He remembers how the guards had rather unceremoniously stripped him down, then dunked him into a tub of freezing cold water. If he had all his wits about him he would surely have balked at the indecency of it all, but the icy water helped shock him out of his stupor, and now he is strong and mentally alert enough to walk without support. Although still a little weak, he can sense that his body will soon strengthen, and his mind will sharpen further with time.

_No lasting damage then...thank the gods for not turning me into a gibbering retard._

_But _who _saved me? And _why_?_

The guards are leading him now towards a rather familiar-looking square at the bottom of an impressive tower seemingly carved out of a gigantic lump of crystal. A sense of foreboding washes over him.

_The last time I was here, something bad had happened._

An imposing figure in a dark robe, long white hair and a silver mask stands at the doorway to the Crystal Spire. A flash of memory confirms that this tall, dark and mysterious figure is the one who had condemned him to limbo within the Wall of the Faithless.

_So why has he spared me now?_

And then he sees her, on her knees before the God of Death. When their eyes lock, both their jaws drop in unison.

What is _she _doing here?

His first thought fills him with despair. She too, must be dead. There is no other reason why she would be here in this infernal place.

But as he is brought before the Judge of the Damned, as he is brought closer to her, he sees a spark in her emerald eyes, a pinkish tone to her complexion. No blank stare or pallid skin. He sighs with relief. She is alive.

Then why is she here??

At that moment, Kelemvor addresses the woman.

"Alya, as you know, the soul of the man you call Bishop was judged to be a Faithless, and so was incarcerated within the Wailing Wall."

As the god speaks, Bishop turns his gaze to the half-elven monk, drinking in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. Her dark red hair is longer than he remembers; it has grown past her shoulders, and instead of leaving it loose and tousled like she used to, she has pinned it up in a bun. Wispy stray locks frame her heart-shaped face, which seems thinner than before; her cheeks seem slightly sunken, making her high cheekbones stand out more starkly. And although her slightly upturned eyes are as bright and fiery as ever, they seem tired somehow, and there are dark circles under her lower lid.

Kelemvor continues, "Such sentences are deemed irreversible, and they cannot be overturned - not even by another god. And yet you, a mortal, attempted to defy this decree."

_She what??_

He stares at her, open-mouthed.

_So it wasn't a dream._

_But what could possess her to do that?_

"As you can imagine, this is a most unprecedented situation," the God of Death is saying, "There have only ever been two previous incidents of mortals launching assaults on the Wall. In both cases, the attackers were defeated, and their souls eternally punished."

Bishop shudders at the god's words.

_What is he going to do to her?_

"The one difference is that you did not seek to _destroy_ the Wall. You were merely trying to reclaim the soul of a lost friend. But you sought to achieve this _alone_, and yet somehow you have managed to journey all the way here from the Prime Material Plane. That speaks a lot of your determination, and such selfless acts could only be performed by one who feels passionately for their cause. For that, I must give you credit. You must really care for Bishop."

_She does?_

Bishop turns again to Alya, who appears to be self-consciously avoiding his gaze, concentrating instead on staring at a patch of dirt at Kelemvor's feet.

Ten feet of slate grey dirt and grass. That is all that separates them, and yet it seems they are worlds apart. He wants to run over, to sweep her up in an embrace, to never let go, but he is rooted to the spot, unsure of what the God of Death would make of such a display.

"Your drive has impressed me, and your intentions are noble. In light of this, I am willing to offer you a chance to fulfil your quest."

He sees Alya's eyes twinkle with hope at the god's words, and his own heart begins to beat faster with anticipation.

"Jergal."

Kelemvor's seneschal appears, seemingly from nowhere, carrying a crystal basin filled with a silver-blue liquid. Bishop recognises it as the same dish they had used to recount his last moments of life.

_But Alya's not dead. What purpose would it serve?_

With growing curiosity, Bishop watches as the demigod places the bowl before the Judge before retreating again. A quick glance at Alya confirms that she is as puzzled by the strange implement as he is.

"Considering that releasing a soul from the Wailing Wall is something that has never been done before, I have to be assured of your commitment to your cause." Kelemvor fixes Alya with his probing blank eyes.

"You stated that you were willing to do anything to free Bishop's soul. Does that still hold true?"

_She _said_ that?? _Bishop wonders, astounded, as Alya nods solemnly.

The god gestures toward the basin of shimmering liquid.

"In return for Bishop's soul," the Judge intones, the challenge clear in his deep voice, "are you willing to relive the most traumatic event in your life?"

There is a stunned silence as both Bishop and Alya gape incredulously.

"R-relive?" Alya manages cautiously. "W-what do you mean by that?"

"To remember that which you have tried hardest to forget. To recall your worst memory, and to re-experience all its associated emotions," Kelemvor explains, as he regards the hesitating half-elf, who has turned white as a sheet.

"The sights, the sounds - the pain, all will be re-visited."

_No! _Bishop tries to rush forward, but he is restrained by the two guards on either side of him.

He has a bad feeling he knows the memory in question.

Rust-coloured earth...blood-red sky...a pack of shrieking, chattering githyanki...

And blood, so much blood...

_Alya's _blood.

He is going to make her relive the moment the gith had torn the shard from her chest.

"No!" he calls out to her, as he strains against his captors' hold. "Don't agree to that! It'll _kill _you!"

"You have been issued your test," Kelemvor says to Alya, as he completely ignores the ranger's protests. "Now, will you accept it?"

Seeming suddenly much smaller, Alya looks uncertainly from the Judge, to Bishop, and then to the seemingly innocuous bowl of liquid beside her. When she glances back at Bishop, he shakes his head vigorously, pleading with her, _willing _her not to go through with it.

"You barely survived the first time," he warns her, "you will not survive the second."

_And I can't just stand by and watch it happen again._

He watches intently as Alya chews nervously on her lower lip, apparently wrestling with indecision. With despair, he sees a steely glint appear in the half-elf's eyes.

She has decided.

She turns to Bishop, her face still pale, but her jaw set with stubborn determination.

But the ranger can detect the slightest, most imperceptible quivering of her lower lip.

_She is scared, and with good reason._

_She could die._

"Don't do this,"he urges her, his amber eyes blazing, imploring her to change her mind.

_I'm not worth it._

"What is your decision?" asks Kelemvor. He, too, has sensed that she has arrived at a choice.

With a deep breath, Alya turns her attention back to the God of Death, and in a shaky but determined voice, she says:

"I'll do it."


	36. Chapter 35: That Which is Hardest to For

**Chapter 35 - That Which is Hardest to Forget**

The silence in the air could have been cut by a blade. Almost deafening in its totality, it is broken only by a faint scratching sound coming from the feathered quill of the Death God's scribe, as Jergal impassively makes a note of Alya's ominous decision for posterity.

_No..._

Bishop's feeling of despair and concern for the monk is quickly replaced by an irrational anger.

_You stupid half-caste, _he thinks. _Don't you remember all the trouble I had to go through to save your sorry hide the last time this happened?_

The long hours of nursing, of watching over her, of lugging her lifeless body through the planes...the long, sleepless nights spent holding her limp hand, as he begged her to hang on, as he fervently prayed to any god who would listen, to spare her life.

How could she make him go through all that again?

He shudders at the memory of all the blood, blood that stained the red earth of the Nine Hells an even darker shade of crimson, all of it pouring forth from that one source in the middle of Alya's chest, a jagged, gaping hole that once held the shard, savagely ripped out of her by the githyanki.

Her wound was so severe, she should not have survived.

And yet she had.

But will she be as lucky this time?

_How could you do this to me again?_

_How could you make me risk losing you again??_

Kelemvor nods. "Step forth," he instructs, motioning Alya closer to the crystal basin before him. As if on cue, Jergal scurries forth, and sprinkles a handful of glittering powder into the bowl of silvery liquid. All at once, the mixture starts to bubble, sending up wisps of white smoke.

"Kneel," the scribe commands the woman in his chilling, disembodied voice.

Alya dutifully lowers herself onto her knees before the frothing dish, which by now is bubbling so vigorously the crystal basin itself appears to be shaking.

Without warning, Jergal flips up one end of the basin, throwing the fizzing and smoking liquid into the half-elf's face.

Both Alya and Bishop gasp at the sudden and unexpected action. Instinctively, the monk's hands fly up to her face, as she attempts to wipe the offending solution from her eyes.

"What in the Hells was that for?" Bishop yells threateningly at Jergal, who has resumed his position beside Kelemvor, his trusty quill and scroll ready for further documentation of events.

"What have you done to her?"

Neither the God of Death nor his assistant so much as acknowledge the ranger's outburst. Instead, both are watching the half-elf intently; still on her knees, the liquid drenching Alya begins to glow, emanating into a shimmering aura that completely surrounds the woman, bathing her in a brilliant white light. As the illuminated orb grows, trapping the monk in its centre, faint shapes begin to form amid the incandescence, taking on both form and colour. Alya herself also appears to be changing; her scarlet hair begins to shorten, and her cheeks are filling out.

As the landscape slowly materialises within the magic sphere, Bishop mentally prepares himself for seeing those infernal red plains of Baator once more.

But the images forming within the rippling globe are taking on _different _colours; in particular, greens and browns. Familiar shapes begin to materialise: trees, grass, a blue sky...

_What is going on??_

And Alya, dead in the centre of this enchanted circle, has changed, almost beyond recognition; in place of the petite half-elf is a little girl, skinny and freckled, but still with the unmistakable red hair, exotic green eyes and pointed ears.

This younger version of Alya is sitting in the middle of a wooded clearing beside a clear, gurgling brook. She looks around, seemingly confused. Lost within the spell, she appears unaware of the world outside her magic bubble, unaware that her every move is being observed by Kelemvor, Jergal and Bishop.

_She is trapped within her own reality._

The sound of a snapping twig makes the half-elven girl turn. A group of three teenage boys appear from behind a copse of trees. They are laughing, but Bishop is unsettled by the predatory look in their eyes, as they approach the young Alya like a pack of hungry wolves circling their prey.

_Run..._he wills the young girl in the vision.

* * *

The shock of the cold, bubbling liquid hitting her face had made Alya shriek involuntarily. Dripping wet, she was ready with some choice words for the doom scribe when she noticed that the mysterious potion thrown on her had begun to glow where it touched her skin. Rays of white light radiated outwards from her body, brighter and brighter, so intense that it blotted out everything else around her; the Crystal Spire, the bland grey square, the God of Death and his creepy custodian, and Bishop, all of them were gone, and all she could see was this blinding expanse of whiteness.

But then the light began to change, to take on form and colour. From out of the glare materialised trees, grass, clouds.

With one final flash, the transformation is complete; she is no longer in the City of Death in the Outer Planes, but in a wooded clearing in the Prime Material Plane.

A _very familiar _wooded clearing.

The soothing rippling of the brook beside her does nothing to quell the dread growing in the pit of her stomach. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the cool clear waters: the same messy head of red hair, the same green eyes and freckled nose.

But more than ten years younger.

_I'm back there, _she thinks, her heart heavy with foreboding. _By the gods, no..._

A twig snaps behind her. She turns to find younger versions of the Mossfeld brothers, sniggering and looking smug at finding her secret sanctuary.

"So this is your little tree-huggin' haven," remarks Wyl, the leader amongst the trio.

Jumping up to her feet, the young Alya regards the boys warily.

"How'd you find me?" Her voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky, the voice of a scared ten-year-old girl.

"We followed you, that's how, you little slanty-eyed freak," says Ward. "Those pointy ears of yours ain't much good for hearin', is it? Even with Webb's clumsy trampin'."

"Hey!" Webb objects, punching the other boy in the shoulder. "_My _clumsy trampin'? You're the one who let rip like a bear with gas!"

All three boys laugh, but there is malice in their voices.

In a bid to get some distance between herself and the advancing youths, the young Alya leaps lightly over to the opposite side of the shallow stream. But the teenagers merely stomp carelessly through the ankle-deep brook to reach her, their muddy boots turning the crystal clear waters a sullied brown.

"Please," she entreats them, valiantly trying to mask the fear in her voice, "you don't belong here. Leave this place."

The leader of the pack regards her with a cocked eyebrow.

"_We _don't belong here?" He advances on the girl menacingly. "_We _don't belong here?" Planting both hands on the girl's chest, he pushes her roughly, sending her sprawling.

"It's _you _who don't belong here in West Harbour, you half-caste little freak!" he hisses, towering threateningly over the fallen girl. "You and that uptight pointy-eared ranger you call your father!"

He spits on her in disgust.

"Look at you. You're a cunt-eyed, ginger-haired weirdo. No wonder your own parents want nothing to do with you!"

Fighting back tears of shame and rage, the red-haired girl merely wipes the teenage boy's saliva off her face, but remains silent. The older Alya, trapped within the young girl's mind, is recalling every single detail before it happens; _this is when he'll push me...then he'll call me a freak...now he'll spit in my face..._every correct prediction is like a terrible omen, portending worse things to come.

"Hey, Wyl!" Webb runs up, clutching clumps of dirt and grass. "Lookit what Ward and I found!" He opens his soiled hands to reveal a soft green tree sapling, freshly tugged out from the earth.

Ward joins them with two other uprooted seedlings. "Looks like the little freak here was trying to grow trees! How crazy is that?"

"No!" Alya cries, distraught. "Don't harm them, please!"

"Ha!" laughs Wyl, ignoring the young girl's protests. "I wonder what other crazy things she gets up to here?"

With that, he runs off, thoughtlessly tearing up plants and leaves, negligently trampling on tender shoots and flowers. Her tears flowing freely now, the young girl remains knelt beside the stream, seemingly at a loss as to what to do, as the brothers tear through her sacred grove, ripping up the saplings she had so lovingly planted.

"Please, Wyl, please stop. You're hurting them!"

But her pleas are drowned out by the boisterous cheers of the rowdy boys, as they stampede recklessly through the small clearing, mindlessly destroying everything in their path.

_Forget the silly grove...just get out of here..._Alya tries to tell her younger self to run, tries to will those skinny legs to start moving.

She knows that if they stay, things will get much worse.

But she is not in control. She is merely an observer, trapped in the psyche of the little girl.

An observer who will see, hear and feel _everything_.

"Hey! I found something!" Ward shouts out, his head stuck in a bush. He emerges holding a tiny blue speckled egg.

"Looks like slanty-eyes was trying to play mommy."

"Leave it alone!" The distressed little girl tries to snatch the robin's egg from the taller boy's grasp, but he holds it above his head and out of her reach.

"You're gettin' freakier by the minute," Wyl comments with a sneer. Plucking the egg out of Ward's hand, he tosses it carelessly in the air, and pretends to fumble before catching it, completely unconcerned with the precious life nestled within the fragile turquoise shell.

With a nasty glint in his eye, he again holds the egg just out of the half-elf's reach.

"I'm hungry," he announces with cruel intent.

"Should I have it scrambled, or sunny side up?"

With a desperate cry, the girl brings her knee firmly up between Wyl's legs. Yowling in pain and surprise, the boy drops the egg, which Alya neatly catches, and returns safely to its nest in the bushes.

Despite the fact that the older Alya had been fully expecting it, the blow from behind still dazes her. Ward's vicious backhand sends her sprawling into the mud, and as she lies prone on the ground, struggling to see past the dancing stars in her vision, she feels calloused hands groping her, pinning her shoulders down. A knee pushes painfully into her side.

When her vision clears, she sees Wyl, still limping from the shot to the groin. His pudgy face red with pain and rage, he sits astride her, his full weight crushing down on her small frame. Growling menacingly, he slaps her in the face, snapping the half-elf's head to the side, and leaving a stinging, angry red handprint on her cheek.

"Crazy little freak," she hears him rage. "I'm gonna make you regret your sorry existence."

* * *

Bishop bristled as the scene unfolded before him.

_Cowardly little slimebags, _he seethed, _gutless bullies, picking on a little girl. Wait'll I get my hands on your sorry necks..._

Now, he winces as the leader of the boys straddles the restrained half-elf, and lashes out viciously at her.

"Crazy little freak," the boy is saying, "I'm gonna make you regret your sorry existence."

Bishop watches helplessly as the teenager picks up the young Alya by the collar. He braces himself for watching the terrible beating that is to come.

But then he sees the boys ripping the girl's clothes off her.

_No....no no no no no..._

"W-what are you doing? _STOP IT!! _Get off of her!" Kicking and screaming like a madman, he strains against the iron-like grip of his guards.

"_LEAVE HER ALONE!!_"

But the boys do not hear him. Grinning voraciously, they ogle at the now exposed and vulnerable girl.

As they descend on her, she begins to scream.

And so does Bishop.

_***Note:__The next chapter is an optional extension of this one. It is __definitely rated as __**Mature/Restricted**__, and __you should be 18 years or older before continuing on as adult themes are explored. __Be warned that it contains some vivid and extreme imagery of violence, sexuality and nudity. I by no means condone rape, but I feel that describing it helps depict the horrors that Alya experienced. If you feel uncomfortable about any of this, please skip over and proceed to Chapter 36.***_


	37. Chapter 35a: That Which is Hardest to Fo

_***Note:__The next chapter is an optional extension. It is __definitely rated as __**Mature/Restricted**__, and __you should be 18 years or older before continuing on as adult themes are explored. __Be warned that it contains some vivid and extreme imagery of violence, sexuality and nudity. I by no means condone rape, but I feel that describing it helps depict the horrors that Alya experienced. If you feel uncomfortable about any of this, please skip over and proceed to Chapter 36.***_

**Chapter 35a - That Which is Hardest to Forget (part 2)**

His other hand clenched into a fist and poised to strike, Wyl grabs Alya roughly by the collar, tearing her blouse and exposing the slip she wears underneath. Beneath the thin fabric of the undergarment protrudes two tiny mounds, the beginnings of womanly breasts.

All at once, the violent anger blazing in Wyl's eyes become a different sort of fire - an ominous, smouldering look of carnal lust.

But the young Alya does not recognise this strange expression. All she sees is that the Mossfelds are gawking at her in a very creepy way. Feeling somehow violated by their leering stares, she attempts to cover up the recent and rather embarrassing changes to her pubescent body.

But her arms are restrained by her sides, leaving her utterly defenceless.

"My, my, my..." Wyl continues to appraise her body, a perverted smile plastered across his face. "What do we have here?" He prods a tender breast with his finger, making the girl wince. "Our little freak's all grown up. Nice...very nice..."

She does not like the sound of that at all.

Nor the way that all three boys are now manhandling her chest, grabbing at her developing bosom and fondling her nipples. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it tickles, and the tips soon harden under their fumbling.

Suddenly, Wyl slithers down her leg, and begins to undo the laces on her trews.

"What are you doing? Stop that!" Horrified, she tries to protest, but is silenced by another slap across the face. She feels a chill as her pale white thighs are exposed to the elements.

"Cor, wouldja lookit that!" Webb was saying, as he gazes up between her legs. "Even her pubes are ginger!"

"Stop, please stop..." she pleads, as tears of humiliation begin to flow.

Still fixing her with that predatory look, Wyl clumsily rubs her naked thigh with a dry, scratchy hand, his touch making the half-elf's skin crawl.

"Ooh..." Ward coos lecherously. "Betcha she's as easy as her ma."

"Let's find out..." Wyl's hands starts to move up her thigh, towards the downy patch of hair between her legs.

"No!" she screams, kicking and straining to shut her legs, to preserve whatever decency she has left. Instead, she receives another sharp blow across her temples. A warm trickle of blood tracks a course down the side of her face.

And then she feels it; that terrible, debasing sensation, as an unwanted hand rubs up against her, cold and alien against the warmth of her folds. Involuntarily, her pelvic muscles contract, and she whimpers as the tears of shame flow free.

"You like that, don't you, you half-caste whore!" Wyl laughs, as he begins to rub her, harder and faster, his rough hands chafing her delicate virgin skin. She feels a strange, tingling sensation down below, one that is sending odd spasms through her body, and she cries out at the unfamiliar feeling. But her screams only seem to excite the brothers even more, as their lascivious grins grow wider and more savage, so she bites down on her lower lip, muffling her cries, intent on denying the boys any further satisfaction.

But then an unexpected finger is thrust deep inside her, stretching her tight, uninitiated walls, and she shrieks from the pain of her first ever penetration. Mercilessly, the finger begins to move inside her, drawing itself in and out, in and out, rubbing itself repeatedly against her sensitised flesh and eliciting involuntary moans from the frightened girl.

What is happening to her? A strange kind of tingly pressure is building up inside her, just below her navel, and Alya has no idea what to make of it.

_Are they hurting me too much? Is that what it is?_

As Wyl's finger begins to pump, faster and faster, the ball of tension in her loins grows and spreads, consuming her entire lower half, sending waves of electricity shooting through her spine. She begins to groan in spite of herself, as if the expanding pressure is making her lose control of her own body.

_It's getting worse...am I going to explode??_

Then the dam bursts, and Alya lets out a long wail, as that strange ball of tension within her deflates, and appears to release its contents in the form of a warm gush from between her legs. At this, the Mossfelds begin to cheer. Thinking she had lost control of her bladder and wet herself, the young girl begins to sob with embarrassment.

Triumphantly, Wyl finally removes his finger, now covered in a clear goo, and disdainfully wipes his hand on Alya's undershirt, leaving a sticky smear on the fabric, tinged pink from blood.

"You're right, Ward," he leers, "She loved every minute of it. She's a whore, just like her ma."

The girl shuts her eyes, ashamed, for amidst all her fear and horror throughout the assault, there was a small part of her that seemed to derive some pleasure from the perverted act.

A part of her was actually _enjoying _what Wyl was doing to her...

_I'm sick, _she berates herself. _I'm a sick little slut..._

Something hard is pushing on her thigh. Alya looks down to see that Wyl has thrust the front of his hip against her leg. A strange, unsightly lump strains against the boy's trousers, like some demonic creature fighting to free itself from its cotton prison. The same swelling is found on Ward and Webb, and they too, are rubbing this solid mass against her body.

_What is going on?_ she wonders, her panic and fear returning. _What in hells are they??_

Knelt between her legs, Wyl's expression has taken on a haunted, feral quality, like a starving wolf that had just cornered its prey. To her disgust, the boy begins to undo his breeches, pulling them down to his knees, revealing his rigid organ, a dangerous viper poised and ready to strike. With that hungry look in his eyes, he stumbles forward, sitting heavily on her chest, his repulsive erection in her face. Instinctively, Alya purses her lips shut, but the abominable, sour-smelling member rubs itself insistently against her chin and mouth.

Without warning, Wyl grabs a clutch of her hair, and violently jerks her head back. The sudden attack makes the girl gasp. Her stomach roils as the revolting member is forced into her mouth. Thick and firm, it tunnels itself deep down the back of her throat, making her gag. She tries to spit out the offending organ, to push it out with her tongue, but it is too strong for her. Something slimy oozes out from the tip of the loathsome snake. She retches, and the bitter taste of bile mixes with the saltiness of Wyl's pre-cum. Her jaws begin to ache, and she begins to choke.

_I can't breathe..._

Desperately, Alya bites down on Wyl's penis. The teenager withdraws quickly, howling with surprise and pain, allowing the girl to take in a big gulp of air.

"Stupid cunt!" Wyl's angry fist smacks her in the jaw, making her teeth clash together. Another blow hits her, and another, each one snapping her head from side to side, until she is begging for the sweet release of unconsciousness.

But the merciful blackness never comes. Instead, something stems the flurry of blows. Groggily, she tries to sit up, but she is still being held down. There is a coppery taste in her mouth. As her eyes refocus through a hazy film of blood, she sees Wyl being restrained by his brother.

"Hey, we don't wanna _kill _her," Ward is saying, as he holds Wyl back.

"Yeah," Webb agrees, "It's more fun when she's awake."

Still glaring daggers at the half-elf, Wyl shrugs his brother off, and proceeds to inspect his injured member. Besides the teeth marks, it is apparent that no serious damage was done. In fact, to Alya's dismay, it still stands at full attention.

With a look of malevolence, Wyl once again looms over the shivering girl, and roughly yanks her legs apart. Before she could protest, he slams himself deep into her, and roars, his face merely inches from the screaming girl's.

"You will take _everything _I give you, you hear, wench?" he shouts madly, spraying his spittle in her face. "Everything! You will take it, and you will _like_ it!"

He begins to move furiously, harder and faster. Terrified, the girl begins to cry again, as each thrust starts to grate against her skin, tearing and bruising her soft petal-like folds.

Rough hands pick her up by the shoulders and flip her, slamming her face down in the dirt. Again, she feels the awful firmness of an erect penis probing her from behind, entering her, sending shocks of burning pain through her. Her salty tears mix with the blood and earth on her face, as with one last animalistic bellow, Wyl empties himself in her depths.

The sound is like a nail being driven into the coffin of her innocence.

As he extracts his spent member from the sobbing girl, Wyl asks:

"Who's next?"

The rest of the ordeal is a blur; she lays there snivelling, defeated, as both Ward and then Webb take turns on her, her exhausted body nearly numb to their abuse, as they continue to batter her ripped and bleeding walls. Even when they finally relieve themselves inside her, she lays there motionless, her spirit destroyed.

"Half-caste whore," one of the brothers sniffs, as he spits on her. "That's the only thing you're good for."

With that, the Mossfelds saunter off, leaving the isolated clearing, and the bloody, shattered shell of a once innocent young girl.


	38. Chapter 36: The Orpheus Dilemma

**Chapter 36 - The Orpheus Dilemma**

The scene that played before them seemed to go on forever, but finally, in a brilliant explosion of light, the conjured vision vanishes, leaving a shower of glowing specks that dance briefly in the air before fizzling out. Returned to her adult state, Alya lies in a crumpled, defeated heap in the centre of the grey square, weeping like the frightened little girl she once was mere moments ago. Curled up in a foetal position, her auburn hair in disarray, the half-elf hugs her shredded monk's robes tightly around herself in a feeble bid to preserve whatever dignity she has left.

"You _bastards_!" Bishop rages, fully mindful that he is swearing at the God of Death and his doom scribe, but uncaring of the consequences. "You sadistic, degenerate _bastards_!!"

He continues to wrestle vainly against the vice-like hold of the guards. He wants to rush to her side, to scoop her up in his arms, to protect her from any further harm these beasts may want to inflict on her.

_How could they do this to her? To make her live through _that _again?_

And to think that he had been expecting an altogether different memory. With a pang of guilt, he recalls his earlier selfishness; all along, he had been worrying about how _he _would cope with dredging up the past, when it is _her _that had to relive all that pain and torture.

His chest tightens at the sight of the once strong and self-assured half-elf, slayer of the King of Shadows, lying helpless and vulnerable in the dirty earth like a lost little kitten. The sound of her convulsive sobbing, like a mournful melody of shattered dreams and stolen innocence, wrenches painfully at his heart.

And then everything becomes clear; that day in the woods, when they had somehow found themselves with their lips locked together. He had been so hungry for her, so needy, he was blind to her anxiety. When she stopped his roving hand from slipping under her trousers, his first reaction was one of anger; he thought she was spurning him, after having toyed with him like a cat played with a mouse. In his all-consuming lust, he had interpreted her hesitation as part of some cruel, manipulative game.

_Bishop, you thoughtless fool..._

In his selfish eagerness to please himself, he had failed to see the fear in her eyes, and instead of understanding, instead of allaying her worries, he had angrily pushed her away, yelled at her, made her feel worthless.

_You are a stupid, stupid man..._

Kelemvor is speaking now, his tone neutral, unaffected by the horrors he had just witnessed.

"Few mortals would have been willing to do what you have done," he tells Alya, who still remains in her prone position on the ground. "Your tenacity and your sacrifice is admirable, and I will uphold my end of the bargain. The soul of Dante Fletcher, or Bishop as he prefers to be known, is hereby free to leave the realm of Hades." As if on cue, the guards release their hold on the ranger, but the god's words, despite its promise of freedom, bring little comfort to the man.

All he wants now is to make sure that Alya is all right.

Rushing across the square, he is but a mere yard from the half-elf when Kelemvor halts him in mid-stride.

"Wait," the God of Death says, his hand raised authoritatively. "You will need to be aware of one condition."

_Scratch, scratch, scratch..._

Jergal's quill scribbles its way across his scroll, as the demigod methodically documents the results of the proceedings.

"Condition?" Bishop growls warily. Why is there always a catch with these immortals? "She's already shed blood and tears for you! What more do you want from her??"

"As long as Bishop's soul remains within my realm," the God of Death continues, oblivious to the ranger's outburst, "There is to be no physical contact between the two of you."

_Scratch, scratch, scratch..._

As Jergal faithfully makes a note of the clause in his records, the scraping of the doom scribe's quill begins to grate on Bishop's increasingly frayed nerves.

"What?!" the ranger splutters. "What kind of dumb-arse catch is that??" He stares at Alya, so tantalisingly close. All he has to do now is reach out his hand, and...

"The slightest touch will nullify our contract, and his soul will be sent straight back into the Wall of the Faithless."

Bishop laughs in disbelief. "You're kidding...you've got to be kidding...you know what? You call yourself a 'god', but you're no better than the devils and demons that crawl through this blasted kingdom of yours! It's always a game with you guys, isn't it? Everything is always some perverse _game_!"

_Scratch, scratch, scratch..._

"And by the gods, _MUST YOU WRITE _EVERYTHING _DOWN??!_"

Jergal pauses long enough to fix the ranger with a look of complete indifference, before calmly returning to his task.

_Scratch, scratch, scratch..._

Equally unaffected by the ranger's rants, Kelemvor again addresses Alya, who has by now regained some semblance of composure, although her eyes are still red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with a mixture of tears and dirt, and her torn clothes hang haphazardly off one slender shoulder.

"That is the River Slith." The Death God motions towards a line of running water at the base of the shimmering spire. "Also known as the River of Blades, it runs through the City, behind the Crystal Tower, and eventually empties into the Styx."

Tentatively, Bishop steps forward to inspect the river. The water of the Slith is a putrid black sludge, with odd silvery shards floating amidst its inky darkness. On closer scrutiny, the slivers turn out to be razor sharp blades, slicing their way through the oily scum.

_Charming..._

"Follow the river downstream, and you will reach the Iron Forest," Kelemvor instructs. "At the far end of the forest, I will summon a portal that will transport you safely back to your plane."

"W-why all the way there?" Alya asks, her voice still sounding small and shaky. "Why can't the portal be closer?"

"That would be a logistical nightmare," Kelemvor's scribe interjects in his cold voice, as he continues his busy scribbling. It is the first time Bishop has ever heard the demigod speak up, and Jergal's chilling, reedy voice sends an involuntary shiver down the ranger's spine. "We wouldn't want the petitioners around the City chancing upon an escape route, would we?"

"Jergal is right," the God of Death agrees, "which is also why the portal cannot be kept open for long. The longer it stays open, the greater its chances of being discovered."

"So how long will it stay open?" Bishop asks suspiciously.

"You will have five days to make your journey," Kelemvor dictates. "I will open the portal on the fifth hour of the fifth day. Within an hour, if no one passes through, it will close."

"Woah, woah..." the ranger protests again. "An _hour_? That's a bit of a narrow time slot, isn't it? Besides, we can hardly tell day from night, much less what the bloody time is, in this infernal place!"

"Unfortunately, leaving the portal open for any longer would carry far too great a risk of discovery by the local inhabitants," explains the Judge. "And if it should venture into your world, a creature of the Outer Planes could cause a lot of problems."

"I take it by that tone that some of the local residents are less than friendly?" Bishop ventures sarcastically.

"Let's just say," Jergal pipes up again, as he finishes his report, and signs off with a flourish, "that you will meet some challenges along the way."

"Great," the ranger huffs, "so let me get this straight: five days to travel gods-know how-far, through gods-know-what-kind of terrain, with the possibility of running into gods-know-what, and in the end we might notevenget to the portal on time??"

"That is the best solution we can offer," says Kelemvor simply.

End of discussion.

Alya straightens up on shaky legs, signalling that she is ready to end this surreal meeting with the God of the Dead.

"Is there an inn where we can rest, and stock up before the journey?" she asks, and once again the ranger notices just how painfully weak and tired the half-elf looks.

"My dear girl," Jergal chides in his humourless tone, "The City of Judgment is hardly a traveller's stopover point. We have no inns here. Besides..." he neatly rolls his vellum scroll up with his gnarled hands. "You have caused quite a stir here as it is. If the other petitioners hear of this, they too might start bartering for their souls. No, the sooner you leave, the better."

"But_ LOOK AT HER!!_" Bishop is livid at the callousness of the two gods. "She's dead on her feet! After what you've put her through, you're not even going to let her stop to catch her breath?"

He is met by the blank stares of the God of Death and his scribe.

"This just keeps getting better..." sighs the ranger, as he throws his hands up in defeat.

_This is one argument I'm not going to win._

"Bishop," Alya urges, her tiny voice quivering, "please, let's just go."

Throwing one final look of pure hatred over his shoulder, Bishop follows Alya as they make their way out of the City of Death.

The journey back to the world of the living is going to be a long one indeed.


	39. Chapter 37: A Surprise Rendezvous

**Chapter 37 - A Surprise Rendezvous**

They are met at the gates by a guard, with a leashed and muzzled Karnwyr. No doubt the wolf would have caused too much of a disruption at the hearing, and so was removed and restrained through the course of the proceedings. At the sight of his master, the animal lets out an overjoyed bark, and rushes towards him, nearly pulling the guard off his feet in the process.

In spite of himself, Bishop breaks into a smile, drops down into a crouch, and receives the full brunt of Karnwyr's headlong dash in the chest.

"Hey, boy! Missed ya, too," he says to the wolf, who is trying desperately to lick the ranger through the sheath round his snout. After ruffling the beast's mane, Bishop removes the muzzle, and angrily snatches the leash from the bemused guard.

"He's a wild animal, not some prissy lapdog to be put on the end of a string," he growls, as he removes the offending accessory. "Next time you do that," he warns the guard ominously, "I'll put the leash round _your _neck, and dangle you out of a tree with it."

As he rants at the hapless guard, he catches a glimpse of Alya out of the corner of his eye. Still pale and shell-shocked from her ordeal, she hugs herself protectively, drawing her torn clothes tightly around herself.

It occurs to the ranger that they should find somewhere for her to rest and recuperate.

With one final threatening glare at the guard, he tosses the leash on the ground, and ushers the half-elf onward, through the wrought iron gates, away from the City of the Dead.

And as far away from that dreaded wall as possible.

His skin tingles at the mere thought of the Wailing Wall, of the slimy mould that eats away at both flesh and spirit, of the putrid mounds of decomposing corpses, and the awful cries of agony coming from the thousands of suffering souls trapped within its infernal confines.

He glances again at the half-elven monk. Her head hung, she limps along wordlessly, lost in her own thoughts, and Bishop is again wracked by a combination of helplessness and guilt. He hates that feeling of impotence, of being powerless to do anything to help. If only he could have intervened during that vision. If only he could travel back in time to keep it all from happening in the first place. If only he could hold her now to comfort her, to run his fingers soothingly through the tangles in her burgundy hair...

_If only..._

They walk along in an uneasy silence, as the ranger racks his brains for something meaningful to say. Somehow, the words "thank you" seem insufficient in this situation.

Instead...

"It's a stupid thing you did, y'know? You shouldn't have come down here."

Mentally, he palms himself in the forehead.

_Yeah, like _that_ was much better..._

Alya fixes him with a teary-eyed but withering look, and the ranger wisely decides to give up on trying to strike up any further conversation.

They continue on their journey without speaking, keeping close to the Slith and following the river's course downstream. Occasionally, they would pass a vacant-eyed petitioner going in the opposite direction, shambling their way towards their final fate within the City of Judgment. No doubt most of these souls would be collected by agents of their chosen deity, to live out eternity in some form of paradise.

But others...

Bishop shudders again as he imagines how some of these petitioners, who like himself had not bowed to any god in life, will end up as screaming, writhing masses of flesh and mortar within the Wall of the Faithless, until their very consciousness is consumed by the insatiable hunger of the Wailing Wall.

Nobody deserves such a terrible fate.

_Hang on, _the ranger tells himself with a frown, _was that _sympathy _I just felt? _He shakes his head in disgust.

_Try not to make that a habit, ok?_

In the bleak horizon, he sees yet another figure appearing, but this person does not have the stooped posture or pallid complexion of the newly-dead. Even more disturbing, is the fact that as the newcomer approaches, Bishop could swear he has seen that face, and those eyes, before.

"You..." he murmurs in disbelief, as recognition dawns.

"What in blazes are _you _doing here??"


	40. Chapter 38: Unholy Intervention

**Chapter 38 - Unholy Intervention**

From his vantage point at the top of the Crystal Spire, Jergal watches as the two mortals make their way out of the City of Judgment, stopping briefly at the gates for their animal companion, and for an altercation with the guard. Passively, the demigod continues to observe the small party as they begin their journey along the River of Blades, watching them until they are but mere specks in the distance.

_Outrageous, _thinks the doom scribe, as he files his latest document away. _Unprofessional and amateurish, to be swayed by the crocodile tears and batting eyelashes of a mere mortal._

_Were I still the God of Death, I would not have even wasted my time hearing her out. Kelemvor is weak; his human incompetence is showing yet again._

He tuts at the Judge's lame attempts at maintaining an illusion of control: 'tests', as Kelemvor calls them, to assess the resolve of humanity.

_He hides his incompetence behind a web of children's games. _

The seneschal regards the mortals as they disappear beyond the horizon.

What they seek to achieve is unnatural, and goes against the orderly cycle of life and death.

All mortals are born only to begin dying - and this must remain a one-way journey.

_They must not be allowed to succeed._

"You summoned, O Pitiless One?" The raspy croaking proclaims the arrival of one of Jergal's servitors.

Detachedly, the doom scribe motions towards the grey skyline.

"You know that portal that's opening up at the edge of the Iron Forest in five days?"

"Yes, master?"

"Make sure _nobody_ passes through it."


	41. Chapter 39: Kismet

**Chapter 39 - Kismet**

As Bishop sputters in amazement, Alya could only gape, dumbstruck, at the figure before them, and those striking blue eyes she had thought she would never see again.

"Alya...?" That familiar baritone voice is as deep and soothing as she remembers.

"Casavir..." is all she manages in her bewildered state, as she stares at the man she had watched die so long ago.

_It can't be..._the last time she saw him, he was crushed under a tonne of rubble, and then...

And then Bishop...

But those blue eyes, the same ones that were once glazed over by the veil of death, are now clear and bright, as they study the half-elf with rising concern.

"You're not..." the paladin touches her shoulder gingerly, as if afraid that one wrong move would turn her into dust. "You're not...dead, are you?"

Wordlessly, the monk shakes her head.

"Oh, thank Tyr," sighs the big man in relief, as he envelops the small woman in a protective embrace. The paladin's affection breaks Alya out of her stupor, and she throws her arms around Casavir's neck, grateful for the physical contact with another human being.

"But how did you...? Are you...? What...??" Her mind is racing with questions, but her tongue stumbles clumsily over the words. She remembers her last vision of the paladin; trapped under a rockslide, his armour was dented and bloody, his bones broken, his face taking on the increasingly ashen pallor of imminent death.

And yet he stands before her now, healthy and whole, dressed in the finest, shiniest suit of armour she has ever seen him in. A luxurious, flowing cloak of cerulean blue hangs from his shoulders, and he carries a heavy shield of the same colour, with an unusual coat of arms, depicting a set of scales positioned over an upright warhammer.

"Tyr smiles on me," Casavir explains, gesturing towards the symbol etched into his shield. "After my...demise, my soul was retrieved and taken to the House of the Triad, where I now reside. Oh, you should see the place, Alya. Even now its wonders do not cease to amaze me: the marble halls, the gleaming palaces, and you will love the majestic green mountains..." his voice trails off as he realises how unlikely it would be for a living mortal to ever set foot in the Celestial Plane. "Anyway." He continues, "I was chosen to become one of the Maimed God's divine servants."

"That sounds like a great honour," remarks Alya, noting the pride in the paladin's voice as he speaks. In life, he had always been somewhat more reserved, his brow perpetually furrowed as he bears the weight of an unspoken burden on his broad shoulders.

But it seems as though he has truly found his place in the afterlife.

_Death becomes you, Cas._

"So if you live in the Celestial Plane, what in the world are you doing here in Hades?" she asks him.

"Part of my duty involves guiding the newly-departed souls of Tyr's faithful back to His domain. Considering I do not make this journey often, fate must have had a hand in our reunion today." Tenderly, he strokes the half-elf's cheek, and again his expression clouds over with worry at the sorry state of the monk.

"You do not look very well, little robin," he comments, calling her by the nickname he gave her what seems like so long ago. "My presence here in the Fugue Plane is easily explained, but I suspect the reason for yours is not." Cupping her face in his hands, Casavir gazes at her with those penetrating eyes of blue steel.

"Tell me, Alya: what are you doing here in the Plane of Death?"

Alya gulps, overcome by a sudden rush of guilt. Squirming beneath the scrutiny of the knight's piercing eyes, she nervously begins to twirl a lock of hair with her finger.

_Annoying habit._

The action causes her tattered robe to shift, exposing the leather thong she wears around her neck. A simple stone amulet hangs from the necklace, and a ring made from yellow gold.

Casavir's eyes light up at the sight of the golden band.

"You wear it still," the paladin remarks happily, holding up the ring.

"No, wait..." she starts, as she quickly tries to tuck the necklace back under her clothes.

But it is too late, for Casavir is now staring bemusedly at the gaping hole in the middle of the band.

"What?" he utters his disbelief. "What happened to the diamond?"

He turns to her questioningly.

In a flash, Alya is transported back to her room in Crossroads Keep, the night before the siege. Casavir was with her, and they were in bed together, but both were fully dressed. The paladin had detected her hesitation, had felt her tense up when he touched her. Being the gentleman that he was, he had not pushed the issue, merely content with spending the night just holding her.

Then, right before they were summoned for the emergency meeting in the war room, he had given her this, a ring exquisitely crafted in the likeness of a band of intertwining vines, with a brilliant diamond nestled amongst the golden ivy. Sheepishly, the knight had admitted that it had been intended for another woman, many years back. He had tried putting the ring on her, but it was way too big for her slender finger, so she hastily stuck it on a leather strap, and tied it around her neck.

Casavir's promise to her on that night echoes now in her ear like a castigating chant:

"_When all this is over, I will make you my wife."_

The paladin now stands before her, damaged ring in hand, his searching eyes probing her for an answer.

Unable to meet his gaze, Alya looks away.

And her eyes fall on the ranger.

Casavir blinks in surprise, as if seeing Bishop for the first time, but his look of confusion soon turns into a scowl.

"Why is he here?" The paladin's tone is suspicious, accusatory, as he sizes up the ranger, assessing the threat the other man poses.

Bishop chuckles humourlessly.

"I believe I have more right to be here than either of you," he sneers.

"I'm _dead_."

"He's...?" Bewildered, Casavir looks back at Alya, demanding answers.

"What does this all mean? Why-"

Realisation finally dawns on the paladin, and Alya hangs her head in shame. But even with her eyes trained on the paladin's feet, the half-elf can detect the hurt in the man's voice.

"You're here because of him."

"I-I'm sorry, Cas," Alya stammers, feeling two inches tall. "It's just...just..."

_Just what? Just that you've had the hots for the ranger all along? That you are so pathetically desperate for someone's love, you accepted Cas' proposal not out of love, but because he was the 'logical' choice? _

At a loss for words, the half-elf falls back into silence. She can feel the paladin's injured eyes boring into the top of her head.

"I never wanted to hurt you," she whispers lamely.

She feels a gloved hand lifting her chin, forcing her to look up into those lucid blue eyes.

But there is no disappointment or resentment in Casavir's eyes. If anything, they seem to be projecting acceptance.

And understanding.

"Little robin..." the paladin is saying. Alya winces at the term of endearment.

_I don't deserve your kindness..._

Holding up the ring, Casavir asks, "Do you remember the meaning of this inscription?"

Alya reads the fine script etched on the inside of the gold band:

_Kismet._

"It means fate," the half-elf says. "Destiny."

Casavir nods. "I believe it's derived from a Zakharan language." His eyes are soft as he continues, "Do you remember what I said to you when I gave you this ring?"

She nods tentatively.

"I said that it was fate that brought you to me at Old Owl Well, so that you could give me a reason to live again, and as long as fate would allow it, I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

_Ouch, thanks for that guilt trip. _

She hopes he is getting somewhere with this.

"And today, out of all places, our paths cross once again, out here in the Fugue Plane. Now what are the odds of that?"

She has to admit it is a freaky coincidence.

"So you believe this meeting is...kismet?" she asks.

He nods.

"Everything happens for a reason, Alya. That much, I have learnt in my afterlife. The shard, the King of Shadows, my death," the half-elf marvels at how accepting he seems of his passing. "And as much as it saddens me to say this, little robin, it is clear that we were never meant to stay together."

"That's not true," Alya blurts out, as the painful memories come flooding back. "We could have saved you. But Bishop..." she will never forget how the ranger had so callously slit the paladin's throat, and then stood by and watched the man's lifeblood emptying from his body.

"Ssh..." Casavir places a finger over her lips. "Even our actions are driven by destiny. Think about it: if he hadn't done what he did, you would have insisted on staying, on trying to save me. Then the cave-in would have killed us all."

Once again, the paladin lovingly fingers the ring. Devoid of its magnificent diamond, it is now merely an ornate golden hoop.

"I have hung on to this ring, to my past, for so long. And yet, I gave it to you. Why? Perhaps you were meant to have it, and perhaps you were meant to use its stone to fulfil a greater purpose."

Despite the paladin's kind words, the guilt is too much for Alya to bear; she has been unfaithful to the dead man's memory. Even worse, she had desecrated the ring he had used to propose to her, torn the very soul out of the symbol of their promised union.

Leaning her head on his chest, the half-elf begins to weep.

"I'm so sorry..."

"There is nothing you need to be sorry for," Casavir says soothingly, as he tenderly strokes her hair. "You have done nothing wrong. We walked the same path once, but not anymore. I can no longer be there for you, to protect you. It is only natural for you to seek comfort from another." He glances again at Bishop, but for once, his eyes show no hatred for the other man.

"Who am I to question your choices, your judgment? Who am I to question _destiny_? There is a reason for everything, Alya, and I am sure you have yours."

After wiping the tears from her cheeks, the paladin kisses her on the forehead.

"I'm afraid I must go. Tyr's faithful is waiting, and I need to get to him before the devils or demons." He gives her hand one last squeeze.

"May Tyr protect you."

He turns to leave, but the monk grabs his arm, as if unwilling to let him go.

"You know what's funny?" Alya remarks with a wistful smile, "you never once called me 'my lady'."

Casavir gives her a small bow, and winks.

"I tried my best...my lady."

* * *

Bishop tried to keep his distance from the entire exchange between the paladin and the monk. Tearful reunions are not his thing, especially not a soppy one between ex-lovers. Still, when Casavir pulled Alya in for a hug, the ranger could not help bristling with jealousy.

He recalls the last time he saw the two lovebirds in each other's arms, that night up on the battlements of Crossroads Keep. His heart had wrenched at the sight then, just as it is doing now. When they had retired to her Captain's quarters for the night, he had felt his childish fantasies about learning to trust, perhaps even love, someone again, crumble with the closing of her bedroom door. He had sworn then to make her pay, to make her suffer for so gently breaking down the walls of his resistance, for building up his foolish hopes, only to dash them so cruelly in one fell blow.

Casavir is inspecting something around Alya's neck, and the ranger fumes at the other man's close proximity to the half-elf. From his vantage point, Bishop glimpses a twinkle of gold.

_The ring._

The first time he saw it was in the war room; Alya and Casavir had emerged from her private chambers together, looking decidedly smug, and he instantly spotted her new accessory. Who could have missed that dazzling, gaudy addition to her wardrobe? The paladin could not have staked his claim any more obviously if he had peed on her.

That ring was what confirmed his resolve to betray her during the siege.

Bishop's bitter reminiscence is interrupted when he notices that the paladin is frowning at the gold band. As surreptitiously as he could, he leans in closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"What happened to the diamond?" Casavir is asking. Looking increasingly distressed, Alya turns to look at the ranger.

And so does Casavir.

_Me? What have I got to do with the missing diamond??_

"Why is he here?" asks the knight, an edge creeping into his voice.

The awkwardness of the confrontation is not lost on Bishop. As he stares defiantly back at his nemesis, he recalls how he had once watched the flame in those fiery blue eyes fade and die.

He recalls how _he _had been the one who put them out.

_This is a new one even for me, _he thinks, _a stand-off with someone I've killed._

"I believe I have more right to be here than either of you," Bishop retorts, "I'm _dead_." He smirks with satisfaction as the paladin's look of confusion slowly evolves into one of realisation, and finally, hurt.

_Look who's gloating now, tin can._

Casavir turns his attention back to Alya, his eyes probing her for answers. The monk refuses to meet his gaze. Remaining silent, she chews on her lower lip and stares intently at the ground, as if willing the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

"Little robin," Bishop hears Casavir say, as he gently tilts her head up by then chin.

_Little robin?? Bleurgh..._

The paladin is talking about some sort of engraving on the inside of the ring he gave Alya. _Kiss me...kez-meh..._something like that.

"...it was fate that brought you to me...so that you could give me a reason to live again...as long as fate would allow it, I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

_Oh, puh-lease..._

Despite gagging on the cloyingly sweet sentiment, Bishop cannot help but wonder where all this talk about fate and destiny is leading. Right now, Casavir, selfless hero that he is, is talking about how his own death was meant to be.

How could the man be so blasé about his own murder?

"That's not true," Alya is protesting. "We could have saved you. But Bishop..." her voice trails off as she glances accusingly at the ranger.

_Thanks for the vote of confidence, babe._

"Even our actions are driven by destiny..." the paladin's tone bears no grudge against the ranger.

_No it isn't...I did what I did on the spur of the moment. It was entirely my decision..._

It was the only way he could think of to get Alya out of the crumbling citadel. The suggestion that everything he does is predetermined by some unknown mystery force, that his entire life has already been mapped out for him, that he has no control over his decisions, unnerves him. The countless times he had wished to turn back time, when he had wondered "what if...?"

_What if I was never kidnapped by Garrick and the raiders? What if my Pa had stood up for me, defended me, _protected_ me? What if I had never agreed to burn down my own village?_

_What if I had told Alya how I felt about her?_

Could it be that there has never been an alternative?

"Who am I to question your choices, your judgment?" Casavir is saying. "Who am I to question _destiny_? There is a reason for everything, Alya, and I am sure you have yours."

_Huh? What? _Bishop blinks. Did he hear right? Had the paladin just graciously _conceded_ to him?

_No begging her to reconsider? No underhanded comments about the dubiousness of my character? No dire warnings that I'll end up stabbing her in the back?_

After kissing Alya gently on the forehead, Casavir gives her one final hug, and - ever the gentleman - a bow, before going on his way.

He stops in front of Bishop, and the ranger could not help but peek at the man's neck, his guilty conscience perhaps looking for the deep gash where he had slit Casavir's throat. But the knight's neck is smooth and unmarked.

_Tyr is kind to His divine servants..._

Casavir is looking at him, not maliciously, but the eye contact is starting to make the ranger uncomfortable.

Trying to make light of the situation, Bishops extends his hand in a mock gesture of magnanimity.

"Uh...no hard feelings?" he asks.

To his surprise, Casavir accepts the proffered hand, although the handshake is just that bit too hard.

"You take care of her," the paladin tells him.

It does not sound like a request.

Perceiving a challenge, the ranger scowls, his hackles raised.

"Or else what?" he growls at the bigger man. "Or you'll smite me?"

The paladin merely shakes his head.

"It is not a threat, Bishop. She deserves nothing less."

Casavir breaks the handshake, leaving Bishop's fingers tingling from the vice-like grip.

"I just hope that you agree."


	42. Chapter 40: Unclean

**Chapter 40 – Unclean **

They trudge on in silence, and it is truly a deafening kind of silence, for nothing stirs in the grey wastelands of Hades; no winds disturb the fine sands, no raindrops mar the smooth flatness of the desert floor, no creatures squeak or chitter or roar.

The lack of creatures is probably a good thing; gods know what kinds of monsters inhabit this infernal plane.

Bishop is in the lead. Following the God of Death's instructions, they follow the River Slith, yet keeping a safe distance from its banks. The oily black waters give off an unpleasant stench, like day-old vomit, so thick and curdled that it makes no sound as it flows downstream. Silver glints of metal bob above the surface of the mire briefly before disappearing again into its murky depths.

He hears a rustle of clothing behind him. The ranger turns to see Alya heading towards the shores of the river.

_What in blazes is she doing?_

He watches as she falls to her knees beside the flowing sludge, grabs a washcloth from her satchel, and proceeds to dip it into the black slop.

"Are you crazy?" he demands as he runs up to her. Is she seriously considering cleaning herself with that sewer drainage?

He stops short in surprise when the wet towel emerges from the river, dripping crystal clear water.

_Eh?_

Then he sees the little rune stone tied round the monk's wrist, its unusual symbol emanating a steady blue glow, a blue that brings to mind the azure colour of a calm sea, or the turquoise tone of a deep lagoon.

Alya is rubbing her face with the washcloth—_hard. _Then she returns the rag and the amulet into the river, creating a growing pool of clean, fresh water, before scrubbing herself again, her hands pumping furiously, her cheeks turning a bright red from the self-inflicted abrasion.

"Erm...are you alright?"

No response. As if in a manic trance, the half-elf continues to draw water from the river and scrub herself raw. Crimson slits appear on her hands; the rune is good at purifying water, but it can't filter out the razor-sharp blades flowing through the Slith.

Bishop makes a move to grab her, to pull her back before she hurts herself even more.

His hand pauses inches from her shoulder as he remembers Kelemvor's grave warning:

"_The slightest touch will nullify our contract..." _

With a frustrated snarl, he flexes his outstretched fingers, and drops his hand.

"Alya..." She doesn't respond. He calls louder.

"_ALYA!_"

She finally turns to him, her cheeks red-raw, a haunted look glazing over her green eyes. Blood-tinged rivulets of water trickle down her arms and drip off her elbows.

"Stop that," he says, then adds, "please, before you lose a finger."

She shakes her head vigorously from side to side.

"No," she mumbles, as she leans to get more water, "I need to get clean. I feel so dirty..."

And then she does the most unexpected thing,

She starts stripping in front of Bishop.

"So dirty..." she continues to mutter to herself, as she scours the length of her exposed body. "I'm covered in filth..."

"Stop that! Have you gone mad? Alya!" He sees her tattered robe fall off her shoulders, revealing soft peachy skin. He sees the smooth curve of her lower back, her nipped in waist...

And he turns away.

_What's wrong with you? _he asks himself. _Why aren't you ogling?_

_Those sick little bastards. They did this to her. Those spineless little cowards..._

_Yeah, okay, boo-hoo...now let's ogle!_

_No-good scumsuckers. How could they do that to her? Even I won't stoop so low..._

_Yoo-hoo...naked wench at six o'clock..._

_She was just a little girl..._

Glaring daggers into the middle distance, Bishop stands with his back to the bathing half-elf, clenching and unclenching his fists, grinding his teeth so hard his jaws start to ache. He needs to hit _something_, but the Grey Wastes of Hades have nothing to offer.

Gods, he hates this feeling of complete helplessness.

The sloshing sound behind him finally ceases. He chances a glance over his shoulder. Alya has pulled on a spare robe, and is tying the sash with trembling fingers. Wet locks of auburn hair are plastered to the side of her face. Every inch of her skin glows an angry red, as if she'd just towelled herself with sandpaper. The cuts on her hands continue to bleed freely, but she is either ignoring them, or she doesn't even notice they are there.

The sight of her nearly breaks Bishop's heart.

Alya tosses her torn robes into the Slith. The rags float briefly on the black surface before being shredded by the river's blades, and sinking into its inky depths.

She turns away, and prepares to lug her bulky satchel over her shoulder. Her knees shudder under the weight.

Why do women always insist on packing enough to clothe a village?

"Put that down," he tells her. "We'll pitch camp here."

She blinks. "Out in the open?"

He shrugs as he surveys the landscape. Drab, grey flatness stretch out in all directions.

"Looks as good a place as any."

Being careful not to touch her, he pulls her pack off her shoulders. She doesn't even try to argue as she sinks to her knees where she stood. Once more, Bishop is struck by her haggard look, by the dark bags under her bleary eyes.

When was the last time she had a good rest?

Bishop drops the bag on the ground. He unrolls the sleeping mat tied to top of the satchel.

"Get in."

Her stare is blank, but her jaw is stubbornly set.

"One of us needs to be on guard," she murmurs. "We're too exposed. No telling what–"

"I'll take first watch," he interrupts her. "Now get in."

That is an order.

She doesn't argue. As she lies down on the mat, Bishop finds a half-used bottle of healing potion in her backpack.

He also finds a set of leather armour, boots, blades, a bow and a quiver full of arrows.

He eyes her quizzically. "You don't believe in travelling light, do you?"

"Hm?" She is already a million miles away. "Oh, they fur you..." she slurs, as she gazes vacantly at the slate grey sky.

Bishop ties a rag around the feathered end of one arrow, and drenches it with healing balm. Gingerly, he holds the pointed end of the shaft, and dabs at the monk's cuts with the wet cloth on the other end. Alya does not protest, reclined on her back in a catatonic state, staring into nothingness through half-open eyes.

By the time he finishes treating her wounds, she is snoring lightly.


	43. Chapter 41: Letting Go of the Past

**Chapter 41 – Letting Go of the Past **

Her lashes flutter as she opens her eyes. She blinks a couple of times, yawns and stretches.

Then she frowns, as if unsure of where she is. When her cat's eyes fall on Bishop, crouching beside her sleeping mat, her face lights up. She reaches out her hand, but catches herself, as if remembering Kelemvor's decree.

"How you feeling, sleepyhead?" he asks, as he fingers the arrow in his left hand. In his right hand is a dagger.

He has taken the liberty of equipping himself with Alya's provisions.

They fit perfectly.

Alya sits up and arches her back, her face drawn and tight once more. The final shrouds of merciful sleep have evaporated, revealing the harsh reality of their situation, and with it, the terrible memories within the City of Judgment.

"How long was I asleep?"

Bishop does a quick count of the notches he made in the arrow shaft, his crude attempt at keeping track of time.

"My best guess: fourteen hours."

"Fourteen _wha_?" she springs up in alarm. "That's more than half a day! Why didn't you wake me?"

He returns the notched arrow into the quiver. "I figured you needed the rest."

She ruffles her bed head. She had let her hair down before falling asleep, and it now cascades in wild torrents down her shoulders.

He likes her hair long.

"I'm so sorry, Bishop," she apologises. "You should've woken me. I missed my watch. You must be so tired."

He shrugs. "One thing about being dead: I don't think I need to sleep."

It's true: he is feeling just as fresh as he did yesterday—or last night—or whatever time of day it was, damn this featureless land. The entire time Alya was asleep, he had paced around her, stalking like a restless panther.

Was she aware that she was tossing and turning all 'night'? That she was crying in her sleep, shaking like a leaf the whole time? That she thrashed in the throes of some recurring nightmare, so much so that he had to physically restrain himself from throwing his arms around her, and holding her tight to his breast?

And he probably would have done so, had Karnwyr not stepped in. The wolf had curled himself up beside the shivering woman, and placed his massive head on her heaving shoulders until the nightmares stopped.

The ranger wonders at the close relationship the half-elf has forged with his animal companion while he was away.

Bishop watches as Alya rolls up her mattress, and ties up her hair, this time in a simple ponytail. Her face, although still tired-looking, is no longer as pallid, and the dark shadows under her eyes have lessened somewhat.

_At least she doesn't look like the walking dead anymore._

He is glad he had let her sleep, despite the fact that it now means they have to travel faster to make up for the lost time.

The monk picks up her washcloth and heads for the riverbank.

"Wait." He tosses her a canteen, filled to the brim with clean, fresh water. Her magic rune dangles from the bottle cap.

He had taken the liberty of preparing the water for her, minus the floating knives.

"Go easy on the scrubbing, will ya?"

Bishop cannot stand it anymore.

He has carved four notches in a new arrow shaft since they started walking, and she has not breathed a single word. His attempts at striking up small talk had met with a stone wall of silence, as she trudges along behind him, her head hung, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes staring vacantly at the dust clouds in his wake.

_This silence is going to drive me mad!_

"So..." he begins, "how does this returning me back to life thing work?"

No reply.

"I mean, I must've left a body behind, right? Something that's been buried? Cremated?"

Silence.

He glances over his shoulder. Alya is dragging her feet behind him, shoulders slouched, in a world of her own. Her hands are held to her chest in a prayer-like gesture.

"You think I get to choose a new body when I get back?" he persists, if only to fill the maddening void of silence. "Just pop into any unoccupied corpse lying around?"

Something is glinting in the half-elf's clasped hands.

"It'd be a laugh, won't it?" he rattles on, as he slows down to chance a closer look. "What do you think, should I come back as a man or woman? Or an animal? A wolf maybe?"

He sees Casavir's gold band cradled in her palms.

"Or gods forbid, a _paladin_?"

He spits the last word out with so much venom, even Alya is stirred from her stupor.

"Yeah, you'd like that, won't you?" Bishop snarls, his anger rising. "Let's turn the ranger into some holier-than-thou tin man! That'd satisfy your sick fantasy!"

Alya blinks in confusion, surprised by his sudden vehemence. "Bishop, what—?"

"Cause that's why you're here, isn't it? You came for _him_! And when that wasn't possible, well, let's just settle for the grumpy ranger, shall we? After all, we've come all this way."

He glares at Casavir's ring, as if glowering at it long enough would melt it into nothingness.

"That...is so...unfair!" Alya says, her voice rising with each word. "How dare you even suggest that?"

"I _saw_ the way you looked at him!" he yells, his amber eyes flashing. "You wanted him, didn't you? Just like you wanted him in your quarters that night!"

He steps up to the monk, gets in her face, and stares at her, at those shimmering green eyes, daring her to deny the accusation.

"Admit it," he growls, his face merely inches from hers. "You're still pining for your dear sweet paladin." The emerald pools begin to glisten with tears, but he pushes on.

"You just can't let go of the past."

Alya's eyes narrow into angry slits. She steps back from him as tears start to trickle down her cheeks, but her thunderous expression could stop a pit fiend. Wordlessly, she grabs the gold ring hanging round her neck and tugs it off.

"I _hate_ you," she whispers through gritted teeth.

She throws the ring at Bishop's feet and storms off.

Karnwyr snorts beside him, and with a look that resembled disgust, turns and lopes off after the monk.

He watches Alya's retreating back as she ran, until she and the wolf are tiny specks in the horizon.

Then he lets out an anguished roar, as he kicks and stamps at the dead grey earth, until he falls to his knees in exhaustion.


	44. Chapter 42: A Big Mistake

**Chapter 42 – A Big Mistake**

Alya doubles over, her hands on her knees, wheezing and sobbing all at once. After she stormed away from Bishop, she had started to run, and had not stopped running until her legs has turned to rubber, until her side started to burn, until her lungs cried out for air.

She plonks herself down on the grey earth, covers her face with her hands, and _screams_ into her palms; a long, loud, high-pitched shriek of utter frustration and despair.

_Bastard_, she curses, _ungrateful sonofawhore...how dared he?_

How could he accuse her of pining for Casavir? No, _lusting after _him, that was what he insinuated.

She hugs her knees to her chest, and cries into the crook of her arm.

How could he even think that, after everything she's done?

_Coming here was a mistake..._

_A _big _mistake._

She feels Karnwyr's cold wet nose nudging the side of her head. With a whimper, she throws her arms around the wolf's thick mane, and buries her face in his neck, staining the creature's fur with her salty tears.

_I shouldn't have come...I shouldn't have bothered..._

_I should've left him to rot in that stinking wall..._

Sitting there clinging to Karnwyr, in the middle of the barren plains of Hades, she has never felt more _alone_.

She feels more alone now than when she grew up an orphan, with a foster father as distant as he was harsh.

She feels more alone now than when she spent all those isolated years on the Star Mount training under Q'ian Zang.

Or when she returned to West Harbour to find the Shadow Reavers had massacred everyone in her village.

Or even that day in the woods, when the Mossfeld brothers...

A fresh wave of tears flows at the memory.

_The worst time of my life, _she thinks. _I relived the most traumatic moment of my life for him, and this is the thanks I get?_

"_You just can't let go of the past."_

Hot rage flushes her cheeks as she recalls the ranger's remark.

_Says he with the wagonload of emotional baggage._

She wipes her tears with a sleeve, her anger overriding all other emotions.

_Selfish, conceited hypocrite, that's what he is._

_I am not going to waste any more of my time on him._

She is going to make her own way to the edge of the Iron Forest, to the portal that will take her home.

Then she will get on with her life, and forget all about him.

Whether he makes it to the portal in time or not...well, that's his problem, not hers.

_I am washing my hands of him._

After taking a deep breath to compose herself, she stands, brushing the dust off the seat of her pants. With renewed resolve, she marches on.

She hasn't gotten very far when she bumps into a hulking goristro.

The massive demon appears first as a small dot in the horizon, one that gradually grows bigger as it moves towards her. When it gets close enough for her to recognise it for what it is, she unhooks her nunchucks, and advances slowly, eyeing the creature warily. The monster shambles along, grunting to itself, its meaty knuckles dragging along the ground as it moves.

It stops briefly ten yards away from her, its black pupils shining as it cocks its boulder-sized head, as if seeing her for the first time.

Alya tightens her grip on the chucks. Karnwyr growls beside her, his hackles raised.

But the goristro drops its head and continues walking, seeming to show no interest in her whatsoever.

Surprised but still on guard, the monk loosens her hold on her twin rods, but the wolf continues to snarl, lips pulled back, revealing his sharp fangs.

The demon is twenty feet away now, moving as though it intends to stroll right by her, like strangers passing each other on a busy city street.

_I guess it's not hungry._

The monk straightens up from her defensive stance, and lowers her weapon.

Big mistake.

At ten feet, the goristro lifts its head. Its cavernous nostrils flare as it appears to sniff the air.

Then, without warning, it charges.

Straight towards the half-elf.


End file.
